«***"  \.        ^r  ^ 


m 


ALFRED 
HENRY 
LEWIS 


THE   THROWBACK 


Pedro  of  the  Ear,"  cried  Moonlight,  " I  owed  you  that. 


THE 
THROWBACK 


A    ROMANCE    OF 
THE    SOUTHWEST 


BY 


ALFRED  HENRY  LEWIS 

Author  of   "Wolfville,"  "Peggy  O'Neal,"    "The  President, 
"The  Sunset  Trail,"  etc. 


ILLUSTRATED    WITH    A     FRONTISPIECE     IN     COLOR 
AND  THREE   OTHER  PICTURES  FROM  PAINTINGS 
BY  N.   C.,  fTTEfH  ,. 


NEW  YORK 

THE  OUTING  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 
1906 


Copyright,  1905  and  1906,  by 
THE  OUTING   PUBLISHING   COMPANY 

Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall,  London,  Eng. 

All  riyhts  reserved 


TITK    OUTINi;    PRh 
UL  POSIT,    N.     V 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTEH  PAGE 

I.  ON  THE  FAR  CANADIAN   .                   .  .  .1 

II.  OLD  TOM  MOONLIGHT       .  .10 

III.  OLD  ALAN  GORDON'S  WILL       .  .     22 

IV.  IRONJACKET'S  LOST  MEDICINE  .     40 
V.  THE  STORY  OF  THE  STEEL  SHIRT      .  .     52 

VI.  THE  TREASURE  OF  DON  LOPEZ  .     66 

VII.  THE  RED  BULL  OF  THE  CROSS-S      .  .     79 

VIII.  DON  ANTON  AND  THE  DONA  INEZ    .  .     93 

IX.  THE  UNINVITED  GUEST    .  .    108 

X.  THE  KNIFE  OF  DON  ANTON     .  .   125 

XI.  THE  MISSION  OF  PEDRO  OF  THE  KNIFE     .          .    147 

XII.  THE  PLOTTING  OF  ROBERT  AND  DON  ANTON     .    156 

XIII.  ROBERT'S  TONGUE-TIED  LOVE  .  .  168 

XIV.  JEFF  HORNE  TURNS  MINER  .181 
XV.  THE  RESCUE  IN  THE  SNOW      .  .    194 

XVI.  AUNT  TILDA  TRIES  A  STAMPEDE       .  .   207 

XVII.  MR.  HANRAHAN  DELIVERS  A  MESSAGE       .          .215 

XVIII.  THE  PROFESSOR  ENCOUNTERS  JEFF  .  .   223 

XIX.  ETHEL  THE  UNMAIDENLY           .  .   237 


&130V99 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XX.     THE  POISONED  ARROW     .  ...  256 

XXI.     APPLIED  SCIENCE  AND  THE  MONK'S  HILL  .  273 

XXII.     IRONJACKET  PAYS  A  PATERNAL  VISIT        .  .  288 

XXIII.  THE  BATTLE  AT  THE  DOVE'S  NEST  .  .   306 

XXIV.  LOVE  GREW  AND  TREASURE  CAME    .  .321 
XXV.     WEDDING  BELLS  AND  SOMERSET  .   338 


Vl 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 


"  PEDRO   OF   THE   EAR,"   CRIED   MOONLIGHT,   "  I   OWED 
YOU  THAT  " Frontispiece 

FACING 
PAGE 

MOONLIGHT   WAS  LOST   IN   A   CONTEMPLATION   OF   THE 
CROSS 


THREW  THE  BRIDLE  REIN  ON  SATHANTHUS'  NECK  AND 
ROLLED  AND  LIGHTED  A  CIGARETTE    .        .  j      .        .  136 

BEHIND,  NOT  TWO  HUNDRED  YARDS  AWAY,  WERE  TWO 
INDIANS     .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .  252 


THE   THROWBACK 

CHAPTER   I 

ON  THE  FAR  CANADIAN 

ROBERT  BLAINEY  on  a  brisk  October  afternoon  was 
pushing  his  slow  way  westward  along  that  yellow 
strip  of  wagon  track,  ribboned  between  the  Cana 
dian  and  the  ragged  fringe  of  the  Staked  Plains, 
and  known  as  the  Old  Fort  Bascomb  Trail.  The 
vehicle  in  which  he  rode — a  light  surrey — besides  the 
negro  driver,  carried  in  addition  to  himself  a  stout 
woman,  extremely  the  lady  in  look,  and  of  more 
than  middle  weight  and  years.  This  lady  was  old 
enough  to  be  the  mother  of  Robert  Blainey.  She 
had  been  so  fortunate,  however,  as  to  escape  such  re 
lationship,  while  sharing  most  of  its  ill  consequences, 
and  was  of  no  nearer  kin  to  him  than  just  aunt  on 
his  dead  mother's  side  of  the  family.  Her  name  was 
Matilda  Hempstead,  and  in  that  strip  of  country 
along  the  Chesapeake  known  as  the  Eastern  Shore, 
she  had  been  looked  up  to  and  obeyed  as  "Aunt 
Tilda." 

Aunt  Tilda  had  the  dominant  air  of  one  deter 
mined  to  rise  superior  to  what  difficulties  should  be 
presented  by  new  and  untried  surroundings.  Robert 

1 


THE    THROWBACK 

on  his  side  wore  brows  of  gloom,  as  one  already  dis 
satisfied  and  who,  while  disgruntled  with  the  present, 
divided  what  capacity  for  emotion  remained  with 
him  between  regret  for  what  was  behind  and  distrust 
as  to  what  lay  before. 

Off  a  trifle  to  the  rear  and  right  of  the  surrey,  a 
young  girl  was  riding  a  coal-black  saddle  pony.  You 
would  have  guessed  her  age  as  seventeen.  Her  girl 
ish  beauty  was  of  the  kind  termed  striking — with 
her  rounded  form,  fresh  cheeks,  brown  deep  eyes,  and 
rice-white  teeth  showing  between  the  rich  fullness  of 
damask  lips. 

Ethel  Pryce  was  the  foster-daughter  of  Aunt  Tilda; 
and  her  sweet  face,  with  oval  chin,  eyes  at  an  encour 
aging  distance  from  one  another,  small  aristocratic 
nose  a  trifle  tip-tilted,  told  of  pride  and  courage  and 
romance  and  honesty,  and  withal  a  fathomless  power 
for  the  love  that  encounters  all  things,  flags  not,  and 
is  faithful  unto  death.  With  the  pretty  Ethel,  how 
ever,  on  that  particular  October  afternoon,  the  soft 
question  of  love  was  restrained  and  limited  to  a  mere 
fact  of  power;  for  no  man's  memory  invoked  a  sigh 
from  the  virgin  lips,  no  man's  image  was  traced  upon 
the  untried  virgin  heart. 

"This  is  a  passing  strange  country,  Robert,"  ob 
served  Aunt  Tilda  a  bit  wearily,  casting  her  glance 
toward  the  tumbling  river,  and  then  where  the  jagged 
broken  hills  showed  like  saw  teeth  against  the  south 
ern  sky.  "  Although,"  she  added,  following  a  pause, 
"I  suppose  that  after  we've  got  settled  in  our  new 
home — the  Bar-Z  you  called  it,  I  think — the  strange 
ness  will  wear  away.  Still,  it's  a  discouraging  con- 

2 


ON    THE    FAR    CANADIAN 

trast  to  the  rich  green  of  old  Somerset — this  country, 
so  sterile  and  gray  and  poor!" 

"I  shall  never  forgive  Uncle  Gordon,"  exclaimed 
Robert,  bursting  into  a  sudden  flame  of  passion,  "for 
driving  us  hither." 

" Uncle  Gordon!  Why  should  you  charge  him 
with  driving  us  here?  It  was  you  who  urged  our 
coming;  and  for  the  matter  of  that  I  see  nothing  to 
prevent  our  home-going  to-morrow,  should  we  so 
resolve." 

"True,  Aunt,  so  far  as  you  and  Ethel  are  con 
cerned,"  rejoined  Robert,  his  manner  a  trifle  im 
proved,  though  peevish  and  fault-finding;  "and  I 
ought  perhaps  to  thank  you  for  bearing  me  company 
in  this  exile.  But  take  my  own  case:  How  was  I  to 
remain  in  Somerset  under  those  changed  conditions 
made  by  Uncle  Gordon's  death? — conditions  which 
he,  in  selfish  disregard  of  what  I  might  suffer,  con 
structed  and  cast  about  me." 

"Now  you  are  far  from  just  to  your  Uncle  Gordon." 
Aunt  Tilda  spoke  in  a  manner  of  steady  reproof. 
"His  will  gives  you  twenty  thousand  dollars  in  hand; 
and  its  purpose  is  to  pass  you  over  the  entire  estate, 
its  lands  and  its  moneys  and  all  that  belongs  with  it, 
at  the  end  of  ten  years." 

"' At  the  end  of  ten  years!'  You  fail  to  remember 
that  in  event  of  the  runagate  Alan  turning  up,  it  goes 
every  stiver  to  him." 

"There  is,  I  fear,  small  hope  of  Alan  coming  back. 
I  make  no  doubt  the  poor  unhappy  boy  is  dead  these 
years  gone.  But  if  he  were  alive,  and  returned,  why 
should  you  complain  of  Uncle  Gordon?  Is  it  so  un- 

3 


THE    THROWBACK 

natural  that  a  father  should  prefer  his  own  son  for 
his  own  acres,  rather  than  leave  them  to  a  nephew?" 

Robert  and  the  others,  at  the  time  one  finds  them 
were  nearing  their  journey's  end.  The  Bar-Z  ranch 
was  no  more  than  a  day's  travel  ahead — a  slow  day's 
travel,  too,  since  the  pace  was  regulated  by  two  six- 
mule  teams.  These  latter  toiled  behind  the  surrey  at 
a  snail's-gait,  each  team  drawing  two  great  Bain 
wagons,  hooked  up  lead-and-trail,  and  loaded  to  their 
canvas  tilts  with  what  furnishings  and  house-belong 
ings  the  prudence  of  Aunt  Tilda  had  decided  upon. 
Altogether,  with  Ethel  and  her  pony  Jet,  the  surrey 
carrying  Aunt  Tilda  and  Robert,  and  the  quartette  of 
heavy  wagons  bringing  up  the  creaking  rear,  the  cara 
van  presented  no  mean  spectacle. 

The  muster  of  the  little  party  must  be  strengthened 
to  the  extent  of  one  who,  up  to  this  point  has  had  no 
mention.  This  personage  was  a  certain  fish  out  of 
water,  videlicet  one  Ptolemy  Doremus,  A.M.,  professor 
of  Greek  and  Latin,  and  of  Mathematics,  in  that 
ancient  temple  of  learning,  the  College  of  William 
and  Mary.  It  was  in  the  guileless  bosom  of  Ptolemy 
Doremus  to  see  new  lands  and  peoples.  Moreover  he 
was  a  passionate  naturalist;  and  it  was — so  he  de 
clared — to  study  the  flora  and  fauna  of  the  Texas 
Panhandle,  that  he  made  himself  a  member  of  the 
company. 

Folk  with  a  bias  for  romance  might  have  placed 
the  presence  of  Ptolemy  Doremus  on  more  dulcet 
grounds.  There  had  been  a  day  long  before  when  he 
numbered  himself  among  those  many  who  sighed  in 
the  wake — the  girlish,  obdurate  wake  of  Aunt  Tilda. 

4 


ON    THE    FAR    CANADIAN 

It  was  not  his  fault  that  she  took  the  name  of  Hemp- 
stead.  He  did  what  he  knew  to  win  her.  Failing, 
he  went  no  more  afield  with  his  affections,  but  lived 
a  musty  bachelor,  buried  to  the  brows  in  musty  books, 
for  her  dear  sake.  There  were  those  who  argued  that 
the  love  of  Ptolemy  Doremus  for  Aunt  Tilda  never 
died.  They  said  that  he  housed  it  in  his  heart,  as 
something  harmless  at  once  and  precious,  tending  its 
sacred  fires  like  a  devotee. 

An  innocent  old  gentleman  of  the  old  Virginia 
school  was  Ptolemy  Doremus.  Through  her  wife- 
hood  and  subsequent  widowhood  he  had  maintained, 
unbroken,  his  friendship  for  Aunt  Tilda — a  friend 
ship  hedged  about  by  an  elaborate  respect.  When 
he  was  told  of  Robert's  Southwestern  intentions, 
and  how  Aunt  Tilda  would  go,  he  decided  upon  an 
indefinite  leave  of  absence  from  his  duties  at  William 
and  Mary.  Calling  himself  a  naturalist,  and  never 
once  a  lover,  he  had  asked  Robert  and  Aunt  Tilda 
for  leave  to  accompany  them. 

"All  my  life/'  said  he,  "I've  been  mad  to  study, 
first-hand,  the  plant  and  animal  life  of  northwestern 
Texas,  and  this  offers  the  precise  chance  for  which 
I've  hungered." 

Aunt  Tilda  smiled  a  smile  of  tolerant  benevo 
lence,  for  she  felt  the  compliment  of  his  request. 
She  was  willing  he  should  disguise  the  motive,  and 
give  coyote  and  cactus,  mesquite  and  scorpion, .  as 
the  eager  reasons  of  his  pilgrimage.  For  all  that, 
her  woman's  prescience  was  not  to  be  blinded. 
Thorny,  savage,  poisonous,  neither  coyote  nor  cactus, 
neither  mesquite  nor  scorpion,  by  any  most  fevered 

5 


THE    THROWBACK 

stretch  of  the  imagination,  could  be  made  to  serve  as 
a  pet  term  of  endearment.  And  yet  she  realized  in 
each  a  tender  alias,  behind  which  Ptolemy  Doremus 
would  have  concealed  her.  It  gratified  Aunt  Tilda; 
for  every  woman  is  a  love-miser,  and,  though  she 
may  not  return  your  love,  she  will  rejoice  in  its  re 
ception,  in  having  it  and  hoarding  it;  and  whatever 
the  quarter  it  comes  from,  only  so  it  be  honorable, 
she  can  never  get  enough. 

"What  has  become  of  Professor  Doremus?"  sud 
denly  asked  Aunt  Tilda.  She  was  willing  to  take 
Robert  out  of  his  peevishness  with  a  change  of  topic. 
Moreover,  his  selfishness  as  evinced  in  his  condem 
nations  of  old  Alan  Gordon  grated  on  her.  "He  has 
been  gone  from  the  wagons  for  a  half  hour." 

"He  saw  a  coyote  over  on  a  hill,"  returned  Robert, 
"and  scrambled  down  to  make  its  nearer  acquaint 


ance." 


"What  an  enthusiastic  boy's  heart  the  Professor 
has!"  This,  with  a  color  of  admiration.  Then,  anx 
iety  again  on  edge,  Aunt  Tilda  turned  to  Ethel: 
"Won't  you  whip  across  to  those  hills,  dear,  and  see 
if  you  can  find  Professor  Doremus  ?  In  such  a  desert, 
so  full  of  hills  and  hollows,  he  might  lose  his  way." 

"There  he  is  now,  Aunt,"  returned  Ethel,  pointing 
with  her  quirt. 

The  slim,  gray  form  of  the  wanderer  was  visible 
about  a  furlong  ahead.  He  was  seated  on  a  rock, 
mopping  his  bald  pate  as  though  his  efforts  to  make 
the  coyote's  acquaintance  had  told  on  him. 

"A  splendid  specimen,"  observed  the  Professor  en 
thusiastically,  as  the  others  drew  near,  "a  splendid 

6 


ON    THE    FAR    CANADIAN 

specimen  of  the  cam's  latrans  or  barking  wolf."  Then, 
regretfully:  "But  he  would  not  let  me  approach 
him." 

The  surrey  made  a  pause,  and  the  naturalist  took 
the  vacant  seat  by  Cato,  the  negro  driver.  That 
swart  functionary,  quite  as  old  and  gray  as  Ptolemy 
Doremus  himself,  welcomed  him  with  a  wide  ear-to- 
ear  grin. 

"Them  coyote- wolves,  Professah,  am  a  heap  hard 
to  ketch." 

"They  are  indeed,  Cato,  most  restless  beasts;  and 
as  you  say  exceeding  wary  and  timid.  However,  I 
did  not  think  to  catch  this  one;  I  only  sought  a 
nearer  view."  The  Professor,  twisting  about  in  his 
seat,  beamed  on  Aunt  Tilda.  "And  how,  my  dear 
Madam,  do  you  sustain  the  fatigues  of  the  day?" 

"Thank  you,  Professor,"  returned  Aunt  Tilda,  "I 
do  better  than  usual,  remembering  how  near  we  are 
to  the  end  of  our  troubles." 

"We  stop  at  Captain  Ruggles'  ranch  to-night," 
vouchsafed  Robert.  "We  should  reach  the  Bar-Z 
to-morrow." 

The  surrey  was  skirting  a  point  of  rocks  that, 
coming  well  down  toward  the  river,  left  barely  room 
for  the  trail.  As  our  party  rounded  this  rude  head 
land  they  came  upon  a  broad  level  stretch.  It  was 
horseshoe  in  shape  and  framed  about  with  gray  hills. 
This  expanse,  covered  with  a  thick,  deep  carpet  of 
grass,  was  studded  with  giant  cottonwoods.  Stand 
ing  far  apart,  and  plenty  of  space  between,  they  made 
rather  a  grove  than  a  forest.  The  rays  of  the  sun, 
falling  slantwise  through  the  branches,  checkered  the 

7 


THE    THROWBACK 

grass  with  patterns  of  light  and  shadow,  that  danced 
like  creatures  alive  as  the  wind  stirred  the  boughs 
above. 

Suddenly  Aunt  Tilda  gave  a  startled  "Oh!" 

By  the  side  of  the  flashing  river,  and  quite  the  con 
gruous  thing  in  that  horse-shoe  emerald  flat  cano 
pied  of  its  ancient  cottonwoods,  stood  the  skin-lodge 
of  an  Indian.  The  savage  landlord  himself  was  sit 
ting,  blanket-wrapped,  on  the  grass  to  the  left  of 
the  lodge-flap  or  door.  He  was  not  a  pleasant  speci 
men — with  face  painted  black,  a  blotch  of  mud  in  his 
hair,  and  blanket  torn  and  ragged. 

In  front  of  the  lodge  a  fire  was  going.  An  Indian 
woman  and  a  girl  were  busy  with  some  crude  cookery. 
On  the  fallen  trunk  of  a  cottonwood  sat  a  white  man, 
roughly  garbed  and  something  past  middle  years, 
watching  with  keen  expectant  interest  the  culinary 
operations  of  the  two  squaws.  Twenty  rods  to  the 
rear,  another  younger  white  man  was  employed  in 
twisting  rawhide  hobbles  on  a  pair  of  ponies.  These 
latter,  fitted  with  heavy  Colorado  saddles,  belonged, 
it  was  plain,  to  him  who  attended  them,  and  his 
hungry-faced  elder,  sitting  on  the  cottonwood  trunk. 

As  the  surrey  came  into  view  around  the  rocky 
promontory,  the  squaws  and  the  white  men  bestowed 
upon  it  their  curious  attention.  The  ragged  mud- 
daubed  one,  however,  never  once  looked  up,  but  re 
mained  plunged  in  sadly  desperate  meditation  all  his 
own.  He  seemed  to  see  no  one,  neither  the  squaws 
of  his  household  nor  yet  the  two  white  men.  As  for 
unexpected  surreys  rounding  points  of  rock,  they 
were  as  nothing  to  him. 

8 


ON    THE    FAR    CANADIAN 

The  elder  white  man  stood  upon  his  feet,  and 
waved  the  travelers  a  cordial  invitation  to  approach. 

Cato,  a  prey  to  those  timid  uncertainties  that  wait 
on  strangers  in  a  strange  land,  the  moment  he  clapped 
eyes  on  that  mixed  community  under  the  cotton- 
woods,  pulled  short  up,  cheek  struck  suddenly  from 
black  to  muddy  gray. 

"Whoa-a-a!"  cried  Cato  tremulously.  Then,  ap 
pealing  to  the  entire  party:  "Now  whoever  does  you- 
all  reckon  dem  outcasts  is?" 

"Drive  on!"  commanded  Robert  impatiently. 
"What  have  you  halted  for?" 

"Doan't  like  d'  looks  of  d'  squad  settin'  about 
dat  cowhide  house,  Marse  Robert!"  Cato  had  been 
with  Aunt  Tilda  for  years,  and  felt  privileged  to  own 
and  express  opinions.  "Dem's  mighty  rannikaboo 
appearin'  people,  dat  passel  of  folks  is.  Speshully  d' 
aboriginal  person  w'ats  got  d'  soot  on  his  face.  Whoa 
dar,  Jinny!  Yassir,  Marse  Robert,  I  sort  o'  allows 
we-all  had  better  reeconnoiter  dat  bunch,  befo'  we 
goes  surgin'  into  d'  middle  of  'em.  How  do  you  know 
dey  ain't  murderers?" 

"But  Cato,"  remonstrated  Professor  Doremus, 
"can't  you  see  the  gentleman  making  reassuring  ges 
tures?  He  seems  affable  and  friendly." 

"Can't  tell  nuthin'  from  dat,  Professah.  D;  wick 
edest  dawg  '11  wag  his  tail." 


CHAPTER  II 

OLD  TOM  MOONLIGHT 

"Go  ON,  you  black  idiot!"  again  commanded  Robert. 

"Whoa-a-a!"  repeated  the  fear-struck  Cato,  heed 
less  of  Robert,  in  his  terror. 

The  two  mules  that  furnished  the  motive-power 
of  the  surrey,  nothing  loath,  stood  fast,  switching 
their  ridiculous  tails  like  paint-brushes.  The  six- 
mule  teams  lounged  heavily  up,  and  taking  their  cue 
from  the  surrey  came  also  to  a  standstill.  The  affable 
personage  by  the  fire  continued  meanwhile  his  panto 
mimic  invitations. 

Professor  Doremus,  who  sympathized  with  poor 
Cato's  timidities  while  in  no  wise  sharing  them, 
sought  to  encourage  the  old  darky. 

"Do  as  your  master  bids,"  he  urged.  "There's 
nothing  to  apprehend  from  these  simple  people. 
One  might  tell  as  much  from  their  looks." 

"It's  d'  way  dey're  jumbled  together  skeers  me," 
returned  Cato.  "When  I  sees  white  folks  an'  red 
folks  mixed  up,  same  as  that  clanjamfrey  under  d' 
trees,  it  jes'  nacherally  calls  out  my  prudence.  An' 
as  for  their  looks,  Professah:  Sho!  you  can't  pick 
out  a  man  by  d'  looks  any  more'n  you  can  pick  out 
a  watermelon  by  d'  looks." 

Here  Robert  used  more  strong  language,  and  might 
10 


OLD    TOM    MOONLIGHT 

have  used  bad,  had  it  not  been  for  the  repressive  pres 
ence  of  Aunt  Tilda.  As  for  that  lady  herself,  these 
were  her  first  Indians ;  and  her  feelings  kept  somewhat 
abreast  of  Cato's. 

Professor  Doremus  broke  the  deadlock  by  reaching 
for  the  reins. 

"If  you  won't  drive  on,  I  will,"  said  he. 

Cato,  making  a  virtue  of  necessity,  started  the 
team  toward  that  alarming  group. 

Professor  Doremus  was  first  out  of  the  surrey,  man 
aging  his  descent  with  a  wooden  agility  that  spoke  of 
both  his  ardor  and  his  years. 

"Permit  me,  my  dear  Madam!"  said  he,  assisting 
Aunt  Tilda  to  the  ground. 

"That's  right,  folks,"  cried  the  pantomimic  one; 
"it'll  do  you  good  to  stretch  your  laigs."  Then  to 
Professor  Doremus:  "What  may  I  call  you,  stran 
ger?" 

Professor  Doremus  politely  responded  with  a  card. 

"Sir,  my  name  is  Doremus,  at  your  service- 
Ptolemy  Doremus  of  William  and  Mary  College, 
Virginia." 

"Virginny!"  commented  the  pantomimic  one,  in 
specting  the  card.  "You're  a  long  day's  ride,  pard, 
from  your  range!"  Then  pointing  to  the  "A.M.," 
"what's  them? — your  brand?" 

"They  signify  Master  of  Arts,"  responded  Pro 
fessor  Doremus,  gravely.  "They  are  supposed  to 
mark  a  certain  degree  of  erudition." 

"Shake!"  cried  the  pantomimic  one,  grasping  the 
hand  of  Professor  Doremus.  "Which  I  shorely  do 
enjoy  meetin'  a  eddicated  gent.  My  name's  Jeff 

11 


THE    THROWBACK 

Home,  and  since  I  don't  pack  no  pasteboard, 
you'll  sort  o'  have  to  take  my  word  for  it  I  reckon. 
Glad  to  see  you,  marm!"  he  continued,  removing  his 
wide  chihuahua  hat  in  compliment  to  Aunt  Tilda. 
Then,  as  though  seeking  a  favor:  "As  soon  as  you- 
all  feels  well  enough  acquainted  to  do  so,  jest  call  me 
Jeff.  I'm  sort  o'  partial  to  that  name." 

Aunt  Tilda,  Professor  Doremus  and  Jeff  Home 
bowed  and  scraped  as  though  the  grass  beneath  and 
the  arched  boughs  overhead  made  up  some  drawing- 
room,  and  that  chance-blown  collision  by  the  Cana 
dian  were  a  planned  and  formal  function.  The  two 
squaws,  crouching  by  the  fire,  reviewed  these  cere 
monies  with  deep  interest,  beaming  aboriginally. 

Robert,  who  had  left  none  of  his  superciliousness 
in  Somerset,  did  not  alight  from  the  surrey.  He  had 
decided  that  the  welcoming  Mr.  Home  and  his  com 
panions  were  of  an  inferior  caste,  and  felt  it  due  his 
dignity  to  maintain  toward  them  a  degree  of  reserve. 

Ethel,  who  had  been  lagging  behind  in  dreamy  ap 
preciation  of  the  picturesque,  now  cantered  smartly 
up.  Both  Professor  Doremus  and  the  polite  Jeff 
made  as  though  to  take  her  from  the  saddle.  She 
did  not  want  their  aid,  but  sprang  lightly  to  the 
grass.  She  and  the  Indian  girl  gazed  at  each  other, 
a  flush  of  mutual  interest,  belonging  with  their  sex 
and  years,  showing  in  the  cheeks  of  both.  Also, 
both  had  soft  brown  eyes,  bright  as  stars;  but  with  a 
difference.  Ethel's  eyes  had  been  deepened  and  en 
nobled  by  centuries  of  civilization,  while  the  other's 
were  gently  wild  like  the  eyes  of  a  deer. 

Professor  Doremus  made  a  courteous  gesture 
12 


OLD   TOM   MOONLIGHT 

toward  the  soot-visaged  one,  who  throughout  had 
maintained  his  stolid  and  inert  demeanor,  as  though 
what  was  passing  were  the  April  chirpings  of  a  frog 
pond. 

"And  he,"  observed  the  Professor,  "is,  I  take 
it,  the  proprietor  of  this  unique  edifice.  May  I  crave 
his  name?" 

"Shore!"  returned  Jeff.  "His  name's  Ironjacket. 
These  yere  are  his  squaw  an'  daughter." 

Professor  Doremus  put  on  his  spectacles  for  a 
better  look  at  the  household  of  Ironjacket;  for  his 
concern  as  a  naturalist  covered  Kiowas  as  well  as 
coyotes. 

"Yere!"  exclaimed  Jeff,  "I'll  give  you-all  an 
introduction  in  regulation  style."  Then,  with  a 
flourish  caught  from  those  Chesterfields,  the  floor 
managers  in  the  dance-halls,  he  proceeded:  "Pro 
fessor  Doremus,  let  me  give  you  a  knockdown  to  Mrs. 
Southwind,  and  Miss  Firelight,  both  esteemable  ladies 
of  the  Kiowa  tribe." 

"How!"  murmured  the  squaws,  bashfully  offering 
small  brown  paws. 

Following  this  acknowledgment,  Firelight  shrunk 
away  like  a  rabbit  before  those  learned  spectacles. 
She  seemed  inclined  to  find  safety  behind  Ethel,  dis 
cerning  perils,  formless  yet  profound,  in  that  glassy 
stare. 

"And  the  sept,"  observed  the  Professor,  removing 
the  mysterious  glasses  to  the  vast  relief  of  both 
Southwing  and  the  young  Firelight — "the  sept  to 
which  these  interesting  beings  belong  is,  you  say, 
the  Kiowa?" 

13 


THE    THROWBACK 

"C'rrect!"  responded  Jeff;  "Kiowa  is  their  tribe. 
The  particular  band  they  belong  to  is  some'ers  over 
on  the  Rabbit  Ear." 

"And  is  he  a  chief?"  asked  Aunt  Tilda,  pointing 
to  the  unregarding  Ironjacket,  and  sinking  her  voice 
out  of  respect  for  that  warrior;  "is  he  the  leader  of 
his  people?" 

"No,"  replied  Jeff,  considering  the  soot-faced  per 
sonage  under  discussion  with  a  mien  both  cool  and 
calm,  and  not  at  all  sinking  his  voice;  "no,  he  ain't 
the  chief.  Wolf  Robe  's  their  chief.  Just  the  same, 
this  yere  Ironjacket  is  what  you  might  call  a  leadin' 
citizen." 

"And  the  black  on  his  visage,"  remarked  the  Pro 
fessor,  again  donning  his  spectacles  for  a  survey  of 
Ironjacket,  "is,  I  take  it,  significant  of  mourning. 
His  manner  of  grief- wrapped  abstraction  would  sug 
gest  as  much.  Was  it  a  near  relative?" 

"No  relative  at  all."  The  loquacious  Jeff  then  ex 
plained  that  the  woe  of  Ironjacket  had  a  deeper  reason 
than  one  so  savagely  commonplace  as  the  death  of 
any  relative,  however  near.  "It's  his  'medicine,' ' 
he  concluded.  "This  Ironjacket's  gone  shy  his 
'  medicine.'  An'  that,  Professor,  is  about  the  worst 
loss  that  can  overtake  an  Injun." 

"His  medicine!"  exclaimed  the  Professor,  all  con 
cern  in  a  moment.  "From  what  malady  is  he  suf 
fering?  I've  some  little  skill  in  surgery,  and  we  have 
a  chest  of  drugs.  Perhaps  I  can  prescribe  some 
thing  that  will  bring  him  relief." 

"No,  no,  Professor,"  protested  Jeff;  "you're 
barkin'  at  a  knot.  He  ain't  sick.  It's  his  medicine 

14 


OLD    TOM    MOONLIGHT 

bag — a  kind  of  fetish — that's  lost.  When  you  saveys 
Injuns,  it'll  be  as  plain  to  your  understanding  as  the 
river  out  yonder.  For  an  Injun  to  lose  his  medicine, 
is  the  same  as  for  a  white  man  to  lose  his  money;  it 
leaves  him  plunged  in  disrepoote.  Bein',  as  I  ex 
plains,  disgraced  that-away,  this  yere  Ironjacket  has 
blacked  his  face,  daubed  that  splotch  of  mud  in  his 
hair,  put  on  his  raggedest  blanket,  and  pulled  off  to 
one  side  by  himself  sort  o'  hidin'  his  shame." 

This  picture  touched  the  sensibilities  of  Aunt  Tilda. 

"Poor  man!"  she  said,  voice  full  of  feeling.  "Is 
there  no  consolation  one  can  offer?" 

"None,  marm,  none!  Injuns  is  so  much  like  mules 
that,  if  they're  sick,  you  can't  cure  'em,  an'  if  they're 
sad  you  can't  console  'em.  Injuns  an'  mules  are 
born  plumb  outside  of  every  softer  hooman  in- 
flooence."  After  considering  the  sorrowful  one  a  mo 
ment,  Jeff  continued:  "Not,  of  course,  but  what  Iron- 
jacket  has  his  chance  open.  He  may  knock  over  some 
Comanche  or  some  Cheyenne  d'ye  see;  in  which 
event  he  nacherally  fits  himself  out  with  that  de 
ceased  person's  ' medicine.'  Now  if  he  was  to  show 
up  on  the  Rabbit  Ear,  equipped  with  a  Comanche 
or  a  Cheyenne  ' medicine'  won  in  fight,  why  he'd  be 
aces-up  with  that  Kiowa  outfit  in  a  moment." 

"Shocking!"  cried  the  Professor,  beginning  to  dis 
taste  the  somber  Ironjacket.  "Nothing,  you  say, 
save  murder,  can  rehabilitate  him!  Shocking!  It's 
like  offering  a  premium  for  homicide!" 

"Shore!"  acquiesced  Jeff,  composedly.  "Homi 
cide  an'  hoss-stealin'  that-away  is  what  all  Injuns  is 
born  to." 

15 


THE    THROWBACK 

It  developed,  as  the  talk  took  wider  range,  that 
Jeff  and  his  young  comrade — the  latter  still  busy 
about  the  two  ponies — were  only  callers  at  the  camp 
of  Ironjacket. 

"Not  that  the  visit  is  altogether  casooal,"  ex 
plained  Jeff.  "My  compadre  downed  an  antelope  as 
we  comes  up  the  trail,  an'  we  told  Southwind  here 
that  we'd  stake  her  to  the  said  prong-horn,  if  she'd 
roast  a  hunk  for  us." 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  the  Professor,  considering  the 
half-butchered  antelope  partly  hidden  in  the  grass. 
"Ah!  I  see!  We've  had  fleeting  glimpses  of  divers 
specimens  during  our  journey.  As  I've  told  you,  my 
dear  Madam,"  he  went  on,  addressing  Aunt  Tilda,  "it 
is  a  most  curious  animal.  This  particular  species,  the 
occidental  or  Indian  antelope,  belongs  to  the  family 
Talopus  Cervicapri.  It  was  a  beast  only  insufficiently 
known  to  the  ancients,  who  placed  it  on  the  banks 
of  the  Euphrates.  It  was  of  importance  in  the  fauna 
of  their  heraldry,  and  described  by  them  as  peculiarly 
savage  and  fleet.  They  pictured  it  as  possessing 
saw- toothed  horns  wherewith  it  cut  down  trees." 

"Shake  again!"  cried  Jeff,  seizing  afresh  the  hand 
of  Professor  Doremus.  "  What  you've  said,  Professor, 
goes  to  show  what  an  eddicated  gent  really  is,  only 
give  him  room  accordin'  to  his  strength.  Now  I've 
been  killin'  an'  eatin'  prong-horns  for  forty  years;  an' 
you've  told  me  more  about  'em  in  a  breath  than  I 
could  have  found  out  by  cross-examinin'  the  entire 
Panhandle.  Shake!" 

Professor  Doremus  received  the  plaudits  of  Jeff 
with  modest  warmth.  He  was  even  moved  to  thank 

16 


OLD    TOM   MOONLIGHT 

him  for  the  compliments  wherewith  he  showered 
him. 

"And  you,  too,  have  studied,"  he  said,  for  he  felt 
like  returning  upon  the  pleasant  head  of  Jeff  some 
portion  of  encomium — "  you,  too,  I'm  sure  have  studied. 
If  not  books,  then  nature — that  most  marvelous  of 
books!" 

"Right  you  be,  Professor,"  Jeff  replied;  "as  you 
put  it,  I've  studied  nature.  Also  I  might  add  that 
I've  not  neglected  the  three  'Rs'." 

"Precisely!  The  three  <Rs'  —  'Readin',  'Ritin' 
and  'Rithmetic,'  as  runs  the  old  jest." 

"Wrong,  Professor."  This  with  a  quizzical  grin: 
"The  three  'Rs'  to  which  I  aUoodes  is  Rifle,  Rope 
an'  Runnin'-iron." 

Before  Professor  Doremus  might  frame  any  reply 
to  the  autobiographical  hint  offered  by  the  frank 
ness  of  his  new  friend,  there  came  an  interruption. 
Robert  had  not  objected  to  the  halt  before  the 
lodge  of  Ironjacket.  It  rested  the  teams;  besides 
he  was  too  well  trained  in  deference  to  Aunt  Tilda, 
too  much  in  the  habit  of  taking  his  direction  from 
her  in  all  he  did,  to  dream  of  such  a  liberty.  He  had 
had  no  portion  in  the  talk;  but  that  arose  partly  from 
want  of  interest,  partly  from  a  conceit  of  himself. 
Essentially  the  churl,  he  imagined  the  supercilious 
to  be  the  superior,  and  his  method  of  testifying  to 
his  own  elevation  was  to  ignore  such  groveling,  peas 
ant-creatures  as  Jeff  and  his  company.  Wherefore, 
wrapped  in  impressive  opinions  of  his  own  importance, 
Robert  had  not  so  much  as  listened  to  the  others. 
By  way  of  burning  incense  to  himself,  and  to  employ 

17 


THE    THROWBACK 

his  time  agreeably,  he  had  lighted  a  cheroot.  This 
he  languidly  puffed,  as  one  beyond  the  touch  of  com 
mon  men.  For  the  rest  of  it,  he  might  have  been 
an  example  of  wearied  abstraction  for  the  wordless, 
moveless  Ironjacket  himself. 

This  attitude  of  a  nobility  traveling  incognito — 
which,  by  the  way,  invariably  flies  the  flag  of  an  ar 
rogant  patricianism,  lest  that  incognito  it  pretends 
to  be  accepted,  and  its  noble  identity  be  vulgarly 
overlooked — might  have  been  maintained  unbroken 
to  the  end,  had  it  not  been  for  the  younger  man 
referred  to  as  busy  about  the  ponies. 

While  the  Professor  and  Jeff  were  still  engaged, 
that  individual  of  the  ponies  loafed  slowly  up,  and 
took  position  under  one  of  the  cottonwoods.  His  air 
of  unconcern  was  quite  the  blood  brother  of  that  of 
either  Ironjacket  or  Robert.  The  latter,  however,  was 
moved  to  some  slight  interest  in  the  young  man  of  the 
ponies.  It  took  the  form  of  a  request,  or  rather — if 
phrasing  is  to  guide — a  demand  for  information. 

The  young  man  of  the  ponies,  under  his  selected 
cottonwood,  stood  in  conversational  throw  of  Robert. 
The  idea  striking  him,  the  latter,  with  an  ineffable 
suggestion  of  the  social  distance  that  separated  them, 
broke  into  speech. 

"See  here,  my  man,"  he  said,  snapping  thumb 
and  finger  to  attract  attention;  "how  far  should  you 
say  it  was  to  Captain  Ruggles'  ranch?" 

There  was  enough  in  the  manner  to  explode  the 
irate  powder  in  the  composition  of  most  folk.  It 
exploded  none  in  that  of  the  young  man  of  the  ponies. 
Not  that  he  ignored  the  commanding  Robert.  On 

18 


OLD    TOM    MOONLIGHT 

the  contrary  he  raised  his  eyes,  and  looked  squarely 
into  those  of  his  interrogator.  Beyond  this  unblink 
ing  look,  however,  he  offered  no  retort.  There  he 
stood  and  stared;  and  under  the  uncanny  sparkle 
of  those  gray  eyes,  alive  with  a  cold  fire  like  the  arctic 
flame  of  a  diamond,  Robert  paled  and  flushed  and 
paled  again,  while  his  forehead  broke  into  little  pin 
points  of  sweat.  What  was  it  that  changed  his  heart 
to  water  in  his  breast?  He  tried  to  get  a  grip  on  his 
nerves,  and  return  that  gray  stare.  He  failed;  his 
whole  nature  broke  and  gave  way  in  utter  rout  before 
the  battery  of  those  eyes.  At  that,  there  was  nothing 
of  threat,  nothing  of  challenge  in  them;  they  exhib 
ited  neither  a  sense  of  injury  nor  surprise.  There  was 
no  reproof,  no  anger;  naught  save  that  remorseless, 
inscrutable  stare. 

Something  terribly  elemental  must  have  dwelt  in 
those  strange  eyes — something  of  the  irresistible- 
invincible.  They  owned  a  force  which  was  neither 
to  be  refuted  nor  returned — like  the  frown  of  a  moun 
tain,  the  downpour  of  a  cataract,  the  sweep  of  a 
storm.  They  belonged  with  the  soul  of  domination — 
the  spirit  of  conquest.  Without  evasion  as  without 
defiance,  they  seemed  founded  on  themselves,  and 
spoke  of  a  will  that  made  and  enforced  its  own  laws. 
The  incident  was  over  and  by  in  a  moment;  and  yet 
it  left  not  alone  Robert  but  the  others  as  much  tossed 
about  as  though  a  tornado  had  smote  upon  them. 

Not  the  least  sinister  sign  was  the  deferent,  sub 
jected  attitude  of  the  theretofore  ebullient  Jeff. 
Throughout  that  gray  bombardment  of  Robert  he 
stood  tongue-tied. 

19 


THE    THROWBACK 

Abruptly  the  young  man  of  the  ponies  wheeled 
on  his  heel  and  strode  away  toward  the  river.  With 
that  Jeff,  drawing  a  breath,  began  to  find  words. 

"Colonel,"  he  said,  addressing  Robert  in  com 
mingled  congratulation  and  reproach,  "I  don't  know 
where  you  learned  your  manners,  or  who  brought 
you  up;  but  permit  a  gent  who's  old  enough  to  be 
your  father  to  warn  you  not  to  do  that  ag'in."  Jeff 
shook  his  grizzled  head  as  though  he  had  witnessed 
the  passing  of  a  miracle.  "I  reckon  now  it  was  these 
yere  ladies  bein'  present  let  you  out.  I've  knowed 
him,  two  years  back  on  the  Pecos,  to  throw  a  bowie 
plumb  through  a  Mexican  for  half  as  much." 

"I  intended  no  offense,"  stammered  Robert,  as 
much  shaken  as  though  a  ghost  had  gripped  him. 

"All  the  same" — and  Jeff  began  to  recover  his  old 
happy  vigor — "mind  you:  Don't  do  it  ag'in!  I 
begin  to  guess  who  you-all  are.  You're  the  party 
who's  bought  the  Bar-Z  ranch.  Very  well;  the  mo 
ment  you  turn  the  next  p'int  of  rocks" — Jeff  indicated 
a  near-by  tongue  of  land  to  the  west,  just  across  the 
grassy,  wooded  expanse — "you'll  make  out  the  Rug- 
gles'  home-camp  not  a  mile  away.  But," — here  Jeff 
held  up  his  hand  as  though  to  again  invoke  an  empha 
sis — "yereafter,  at  least  while  you  stays  on  the  Cana 
dian,  don't  run  no  more  blazers,  nor  put  up  no  more 
bluffs.  I  mean  this,  as  much  as  though  I  told  you  not 
to  feel  in  the  mouths  of  no  bob-cats,  nor  go  braidin' 
the  tails  of  no  mules.  You  squeaked  through  this 
trip;  don't  freight  over  the  same  trail  ag'in." 

"Who  is  he?"  asked  the  Professor,  pointing  to  the 
young  man  of  the  ponies,  who  now  stood  gazing  out 

20 


OLD    TOM    MOONLIGHT 

across  the  wide  Canadian.  Professor  Doremus,  like 
Robert,  had  been  held  spellbound  by  those  indomit 
able  gray  eyes.  Unlike  Robert,  however,  his  man 
hood  had  kept  its  feet.  "  Who  is  he? "  he  again  asked. 
"Who  is  he?"  repeated  Jeff,  in  open-mouthed  won 
der  at  the  question.  "Who  is  he?  Why,  man!  he's 
Old  Tom  Moonlight!" 


21 


CHAPTER   III 
OLD  ALAN  GORDON'S  WILL 

THERE  had  been  a  Gordon  in  the  Maryland  county 
of  Somerset  since  as  far  away  as  Cromwell's  time. 
Hector  Gordon,  being  the  first  of  the  name  to  come 
to  Maryland,  had  commanded  a  regiment  in  the 
cause  of  that  Charles  Stewart  who,  one  wintry  White 
hall  day,  gave  up  his  crown  to  the  commons  and  his 
head  to  block  and  axe,  and  for  whom  first  and  last 
more  good  true  English  blood  went  flowing  than 
should  have  served  to  save  the  nation  against  a  for 
eign  enemy. 

When  his  king  was  dead,  and  the  young  prince  who 
should  have  succeeded  him  had  fled  from  the  trucu 
lent  roundheads,  Hector  Gordon,  seeing  the  cause  he 
fought  for  cast  away,  put  up  his  sword,  and  rather 
than  live  under  the  rule  of  those  whose  hands  were 
stained  with  the  purple  blood  of  his  king,  took  ship 
for  America.  He  did  not  come  empty  of  purse,  and 
his  gold,  whereof  his  prudence  had  saved  a  consider 
able  store,  even  through  that  rough,  uncertain  sea 
son  of  civil  war,  was  laid  out  in  a  broad  estate  on  the 
shores  of  the  Chesapeake.  There  he  reared  a  stately 
mansion;  and  there  he  and  his  good  dame  held  sway 
until  their  deaths.  They  raised  unto  themselves 
children  in  this  new  land;  and  so,  after  them,  up- 

22 


OLD   ALAN    GORDON'S    WILL 

holding  their  name  and  the  ancient  credit  of  the 
family  they  had  founded,  came  a  noble  procession 
of  Gordons,  all  living  in  the  old  mansion,  and  each 
in  his  turn  the  great  looked-up-to  figure  of  the  county 
of  Somerset. 

Alan  Gordon,  being  that  "Uncle  Gordon"  so  splen- 
etically  adverted  to  by  Robert  Blainey,  was  the  last 
of  the  line — the  last  leaf  on  the  old  tree.  There  had 
been  but  one  child  born  to  him,  a  boy,  and  his  wife 
— a  dove-eyed  girl  she  was,  when  Alan  Gordon  led 
her  to  church  as  his  bride — died  in  bringing  him  into 
the  world. 

This  Aian  Gordon  was  an  iron  man.  Stern,  silent, 
high,  he  was  no  one  to  have  sole  care  of  a  child.  And 
what  would  have  been  bad  at  best  was  made  worse, 
since  the  son,  to  whose  upbringing  he  now  turned, 
was  as  high  and  unconquerable  as  himself. 

They  lived  alone,  these  two,  save  for  a  cloud  of 
black  servitors;  for  the  elder  Alan,  brotherless  from 
his  birth,  had  been  estranged  from  his  two  sisters 
even  before  he,  himself,  was  married. 

These  sisters,  so  Alan  held,  had  lowered  the  Gor 
don  name.  Each,  in  the  esteem  of  their  brother, 
whose  family  pride  was  as  high  and  steep  as  the 
Scotch  mountains  among  which  the  Gordons  had 
had  their  source,  had  gone  below  her  caste  in  selecting 
a  husband.  These  husbands  were  struggling  folk  of 
much  vulgar  inconsequence;  one  was  a  merchant, 
the  other  an  attorney;  both  died  without  a  dollar, 
debt-eaten  to  the  core.  The  only  difference  between 
them,  as  remarked  by  their  haughty  brother-in-law, 
was,  that  whereas  the  merchant  Hempstead  died 

23 


THE    THROWBACK 

childless,  the  attorney  Blainey,  less  considerate,  left 
behind  him  a  son. 

Alan  Gordon,  his  two  offensive  brothers-in-law 
being  dead,  did  the  best  he  could;  that  is  to  say,  he 
amply  provided  for  his  sisters'  support,  but  refused 
either  to  see  or  hold  communication  with  them.  The 
money  ordained  for  their  care  was  put  in  their  hands 
by  his  agent,  and  the  two  were  warned  that  if  either 
set  foot  in  Somerset  the  provision,  in  the  case  of  the 
offending  one,  should  come  sharply  to  an  end.  They 
had  disgraced  the  Gordons;  he  would  not  condone 
their  more  than  fault.  He  would  see  that  they  did 
not  want;  beyond  that  he  would  not  go.  All  he 
asked  in  requital  of  his  brotherly  care,  was  that  they 
and  theirs  should  never  darken  his  Somerset  doors. 

The  sisters,  being  both  Gordons  and  of  tempers 
more  than  half  a  match  for  Alan  Gordon's  own,  re 
ceived  this  in  the  dour  spirit  wherein  it  was  pro 
nounced.  They  would  take  his  money;  since  with 
the  last  of  it  that  money  was  Gordon  money,  and 
morally  as  much  their  gold  as  his.  Beyond  that  they 
would  be  quite  as  stiff-necked  as  their  brother.  He 
might  rest  sure  that  both  he  and  his  doors  of  Som 
erset  should  never  see  them. 

Thus  lay  the  quarrel,  when  one  day  the  mother  of 
Robert  Blainey,  then  a  lad  of  eleven,  died  and  joined 
her  husband,  the  attorney,  in  the  land  beyond.  The 
iron  Alan  never  went  to  the  funeral,  and  took  no 
notice  of  his  sister's  death,  beyond  ordering  her  half 
yearly  sum  to  be  paid  thereafter  into  the  fingers  of 
Aunt  Tilda. 

When  his  mother  was  put  in  the  grave,  Aunt  Tilda 
24 


OLD   ALAN    GORDON'S    WILL 

took  home  with  her  the  orphaned  Robert.  Young 
Robert  made  a  third  in  the  little  family  group  at 
Aunt  Tilda's  Baltimore  cottage;  for  pretty  Ethel 
Pryce,  a  child  just  learning  to  walk  and  talk,  was 
already  installed  as  a  member.  The  little  Ethel, 
like  young  Robert  himself,  had  been  a  death-bed 
gift  from  one  doubly  dear  to  her  as  her  husband's 
only  sister,  and  again  as  her  own  girl-chum  at  school. 
Aunt  Tilda's  heart  and  house  opened  at  once  to  baby 
Ethel,  when,  with  her  mother's  going,  the  little  one 
stretched  out  her  lonely  baby  hands  to  her. 

It  was  good  for  Aunt  Tilda  to  have  these  children, 
Robert  and  Ethel,  come  to  her;  she  had  none  of  her 
own,  and  her  starved  heart  went  out  to  meet  them 
with  a  mother's  tenderness  and  love.  Meanwhile, 
the  iron  Alan  Gordon  down  in  Somerset  ignored  them 
every  one;  and  beyond  those  half-yearly  remittances 
— they  were  roundly  fat,  as  became  a  Gordon  who 
would  do  things  like  a  nobleman — gave  never  the 
sign  that  he  so  much  as  knew  they  lived.  He  turned 
his  stiff,  patrician  back  on  them,  and  set  himself 
wholly  to  the  congenial  task  of  bringing  up  his  son 
Alan  in  the  way  he  would  not  go. 

The  education  of  the  boy  Alan  was  not  unmarked 
of  vicissitudes.  He  showed  in  no  wise  pliant  to  his 
father's  will;  their  relations  were  not  so  smooth  and 
rippleless  as  is  a  mirror.  The  struggle  between 
father  and  son  began  when  the  latter  was  six  years 
old.  It  continued  without  truce  until  the  end. 
There  could  be  no  talk  of  concord,  no  chance  of  the 
pair  living  in  agreement.  The  father,  as  a  calling 
most  genteel,  was  for  having  the  boy  educated  to 

25 


THE    THROWBACK 

the  pulpit.  According  to  his  awful  notions  of  what 
constituted  a  Christian,  Alan  the  elder  never  doubted 
the  sincerity  of  his  own  religious  professions.  To  his 
mind  he  was  as  true  a  follower  of  the  meek  and  lowly 
Nazarene  as  any  to  be  found  in  Lord  Baltimore's  old 
domain.  He  felt  himself  to  be  representative  of 
every  Christian  virtue,  and  would  have  been  scandal 
ized  to  the  quick  had  any  one,  high  enough  to  be 
accounted  the  peer  of  a  Gordon,  so  much  as  inti 
mated  that  he,  Alan  Gordon,  was  not  a  headland  on 
the  coast  of  existence  by  which  careful,  pious  folk, 
heavenward  bound,  might  safely  steer. 

Being  thus  full  of  piety,  and  churchly  to  the  pure 
core  of  him,  Alan  Gordon  set  his  heart  on  making 
his  son  a  clergyman.  To  this  high  end  he  filled  up 
the  house  with  deeply  religious  tutors,  and  the  book 
shelves  with  deeply  religious  books,  and  between 
these  two,  as  the  upper  and  the  nether  millstones 
of  his  sacred  purpose,  set  about  grinding  the  boy  Alan 
into,  as  it  were,  a  flour  of  much  theological  fineness. 

The  son  Alan  resisted;  he  stormed,  wept,  rebelled, 
stood  doggedly  but  unchangeably  sullen  in  the  teeth 
of  paternal  command,  and  in  all  ways  and  on  all  oc 
casions  refused  to  be  cast  into  the  hopper  of  his 
father's  pious  purposes,  to  be  presently  ground  and 
bolted  and  sacked  ecclesiastically  as  aforesaid.  It 
was  in  vain  the  father  punished,  argued,  or  com 
manded;  he  had  met  with  metal  as  hard  as  was  his 
own  and  found  his  son  as  iron  as  himself.  The  boy 
Alan  was  a  brisk  marvel  with  his  books  at  that,  and 
learned  all  and  more  than  his  tutors  could  teach. 
Studies  aside,  however,  his  reading  ran  away  to  pi- 

26 


OLD    ALAN    GORDON'S    WILL 

rates,  not  priests,  and  he  cared  more  for  Morgan  and 
Blackbeard  and  England,  than  for  all  the  saints  that 
were  ever  pictured  with  a  halo. 

It  makes  too  long  a  tale,  this  battle  between  father 
and  son.  Suffice  it  that  the  latter  would  shoot  and 
ride  and  sail  and  hunt  and  fish,  and  live  whole  weeks 
on  the  water  or  in  the  woods.  As  against  this  he  re 
fused  the  churchly  lesson;  and  if  pressed  would  hurl 
good  Christian  tomes  at  his  tutors'  heads,  declaring 
war  upon  them  and  every  pulpit  thing  for  which  they 
stood.  Thus,  for  those  eight  years  that  fell  in  be 
tween  young  Alan's  sixth  and  fourteenth  birthdays, 
father  and  son,  both  iron,  both  will-rooted  as  Gib 
raltar,  stood  foot  to  foot,  knee  to  knee,  breast  to 
breast,  and  gave  each  other  battle  without  halt. 

One  day  the  elder  Alan,  as  the  pair  with  honors 
even  concluded  a  verbal  skirmish  of  more  than  usual 
fervor,  said  to  his  son: 

"Sir;  you  are  a  degenerate — a  'throwback.'  You 
are  a  congenital  savage!  Civilization,  with  its  re 
finement,  is  lost  and  thrown  away  upon  you.  Here, 
I'll  read  you  what  you  are;  I  shall  take  it  from  the 
life-story  of  one  who  three  centuries  ago  was  your 
ancestor.  Observe:  This,  while  it  gives  you  some 
picture  of  how  that  savage  Gordon  lived  and  died, 
will  also  furnish  a  likeness  of  what  in  your  tastes  and 
instincts,  ay!  in  each  uttermost  expression  of  your 
nature,  you  yourself  are." 

The  elder  Alan  took  up  a  book,  evidently  in  part 
a  history  of  his  house  of  Gordon,  and  began  to  read: 

"  'This  put  an  end  to  the  fray,  for  all  of  the  Gordons  fled  down 
the  hillside — all  save  one,  a  man  of  powerful  form  and  ferocious 

27 


THE    THROWBACK 

aspect,  who  was  naked  to  the  waist  and  had  his  kilt  girdled  about 
him  by  a  belt  of  untanned  bull's-hide.  This  Celtic  savage,  whose 
name  was  Alan  Gordon,  flung  himself  upon  the  nearest  of  his 
foes  and  forced  him  to  the  grass.  He  seized  the  prostrate  man 
by  the  throat  with  his  teeth;  then  stretching  out  his  hands,  main 
taining  the  while  his  wolf-grip  on  the  other's  throat,  he  grasped 
Greumoch  by  the  right  foot  and  endeavored  to  drag  him  down  by 
the  side  of  the  first.  Greumoch  strove  vainly  to  release  himself. 
His  pistol  was  empty,  but  he  struck  the  savage  again  and  again 
on  the  head  with  the  steel  butt.  He  might  with  as  much  good 
effect  have  hammered  upon  a  hillside  stone.  In  the  end,  Greu 
moch  tore  himself  free,  and,  snatching  a  claymore  from  one  of  his 
followers,  closed  in,  and  thrust  the  blade  through  and  through  the 
Gordon,  where  he  still  lay,  wolf-fastened  to  the  throat  of  his 
enemy.  As  the  claymore  passed  through  his  huge  body,  he 
turned  with  a  cry  of  rage  on  Greumoch,  and  writhing  himself 
forward  on  the  steel  made  a  terrible  effort  to  get  his  executioner 
within  his  grasp.  His  work  was  vain;  suddenly  with  a  fearful 
yell,  rather  of  defeat  than  agony,  he  rolled  himself  free  of  the 
blade  that  had  transfixed  him,  and  died — biting  the  heather, 
wallowing  in  gore.  It  is  from  this  wild  man — for  so  he  was — 
that  the  Gordons  of  Somerset,  by  direct  strain,  take  their  de 
scent.' 

"There!"  cried  the  father,  closing  the  book  and 
eyeing  his  obstinate  heir,  "I  have  read  you  what  the 
first  of  our  race  was  like.  I  now  tell  you,  that  you, 
the  last  of  our  race,  are  in  every  native  trait  one  and 
the  savage  same  with  him.  Extremes  have  met,  the 
circle  is  complete,  and  you,  sir,  the  last  hope  of  my 
family,  are  a  degenerate  and  a  throwback — a  throw 
back  to  that  white  savage  clad  in  skins.  Sir,  I  can 
foresee  in  part  your  future  for  you.  I  cannot  say 
what  criminally  disgraceful  deed  you'll  do;  but  crime 
you'll  commit,  wrong  and  evil  you'll  perpetrate,  in 
famy  you'll  bring  down  upon  the  name  of  Gordon." 
The  elder  Alan  wrung  his  hands,  for  he  believed 
every  word  he  uttered.  "Conquering  the  feelings 

28 


OLD   ALAN    GORDON'S    WILL 

of  a  father,"  he  said  in  conclusion,  and  not  without 
a  nearest  approach  to  emotion  that  he  ever  made, 
"I  could  wish  you  lying  dead  to-night,  rather  than 
that  you  should  grow  up  to  drag  the  name  of  Gordon 
in  the  mire  of  your  misdeeds."  The  elder  Alan  rose 
and  left  the  room,  leaving  the  younger  Alan  very 
white,  but  as  hard  and  as  dry-eyed  as  in  the  begin 
ning. 

The  next  morning  there  was  much  calling,  and  no 
replying,  throughout  the  halls  of  the  Somerset  Gor 
dons;  for  young  Alan  had  left  his  father's  house 
in  the  night.  And  no  one  knew  his  course  of  flight. 
Neither,  in  the  long  years  that  followed,  did  sign  or 
sound  of  him  float  backward  to  his  father,  who,  from 
the  hour  of  his  son's  disappearance,  was  a  changed 
and  broken  man. 

Forgetting  all,  forgiving  all,  Alan  Gordon  sent  for 
Aunt  Tilda.  She  came — good  soul! — and  till  his 
death  kept  his  house,  and  was  sister,  mother,  nurse 
to  him.  Robert  and  little  Ethel  came  with  her;  and 
the  elder  Alan — being  now,  with  his  own  son  fled, 
the  only  Alan — was  pitifully  glad  to  see  them.  He 
grew  old  in  a  day,  and  became  gray,  and  bent,  and 
went  doddering  about  on  a  cane  while  his  years  were 
yet  among  the  forties.  He  never  spoke  of  his  son, 
nor  named  him;  and  if  he  made  aught  of  effort  to 
track  him  out,  none  knew. 

Alan  Gordon  died,  and  left  a  curious  will.  And 
yet,  rightly  looked  at,  it  was  not  curious.  Twenty 
thousand  dollars  in  flat  cash  were  given  to  Robert; 
while  to  Aunt  Tilda  and  her  foster-child  Ethel,  the 
dying  Gordon  gave  each  two  thousand  dollars  a  year, 

29 


THE    THROWBACK 

to  be  a  charge  upon  his  estate  and  payable  every 
New  Year's  day.  The  residue — lands  and  houses, 
stocks,  mortgages  and  moneys — the  aggregate  value 
whereof  touched  roundly  a  half  million,  was  tied  up, 
principal  and  income,  for  a  period  of  ten  years.  If 
the  young  Alan  came  back  within  that  space,  it  was 
all  and  singly  to  become  his.  Upon  his  failure  thus 
to  return,  the  nephew  Robert  was  to  take  all  in  the 
prodigal's  stead.  Pending  those  waiting  ten  years, 
no  one  was  to  dwell  in  the  Gordon  mansion.  It 
was  to  be  held  in  the  care  of  trustees;  Aunt  Tilda, 
Robert,  and  Ethel — now  ripened  and  rounded  into 
beautiful  girlhood — were  to  occupy  a  near-by  cot 
tage,  leaving  the  great  house  tenantless  and  ready 
for  the  wandering  Alan  to  have  instant  possession  of 
as  its  master. 

Robert  Blainey,  not  yet  thirty,  was  sickly,  melan 
choly,  selfish,  cruel  without  courage,  full  of  book- 
cleverness,  with  a  bent  for  plot  and  intrigue,  and  an 
innate  preference  for  profit  based  on  wrong.  There 
was  something  repellant  in  his  sallow  skin,  thin  quer 
ulous  lips,  lank  black  hair,  and  small,  dark  complain 
ing  eyes.  No  one  liked  him;  and  when,  taking  his 
Uncle  Gordon's  will  in  dudgeon  he  set  up  a  wail 
against  it,  saying  it  was  hard  and  unfair  that  he 
should  be  thus  put  aside  in  favor  of  one  who,  if  liv 
ing,  was  certain  to  bring  with  him  as  he  came  into 
his  fortune  a  name  soiled  and  disfigured  by  a  past 
given  over  to  evil  courses,  no  one  to  his  wonder 
appeared  to  sympathize.  On  the  contrary  he 
met  cold  looks,  and  scarcely  disguised  contempt. 
He  was  never  a  favorite  in  old  Somerset;  now, 

30 


OLD    ALAN    GORDON'S    WILL 

when  he  might  become  the  Gordon  heir,  it  was 
as  though  the  countryside  had  combined  to  loathe 
him. 

"One  would  think,  Aunt  Tilda,"  said  he,  "that  I, 
in  order  to  supplant  him  and  steal  his  heritage,  had 
contrived  the  long-ago  flight  of  this  Alan,  and  was 
now  intriguing  to  prevent  his  return." 

The  good  folk  of  Somerset  had  one  advantage  over 
and  beyond  any  enjoyed  by  Robert  and  Aunt  Tilda. 
The  Somerset  good  people  knew  the  runaway  Alan; 
they  had  been  acquainted  with  him  as  a  lad,  and 
numbered  themselves  his  friends.  To  set  opposite 
this,  neither  Robert  nor  Aunt  Tilda  nor  Ethel  had 
ever  been  given  a  glimpse  of  him.  It  was  young 
Alan's  flight  that  had  broken  down  the  barriers  of 
his  father's  pride,  and  brought  the  latter  and  Aunt 
Tilda  together.  Before  that  day,  young  Alan  heard 
but  little  of  his  Baltimore  relatives,  and  saw  them  not 
at  all.  Love — affection — never  exists  without  ac 
quaintance,  any  more  than  your  blossom  exists  with 
out  its  root;  and  it  would  not  be  fair  to  find  fault 
with  Robert  and  the  feminine  two  for  taking  calmly 
the  absence  of  young  Alan  Gordon.  At  the  most 
he  was  but  a  name;  besides — and  this  is  said  for 
the  good  of  Robert — where  is  he  who  will  hunt  up  a 
lost  rival,  the  coming  of  whom  is  to  chouse  him  out 
of  an  inheritance? 

Disliking  Robert,  however,  and  loving  or  thinking 
they  loved  young  Alan,  the  good  Somerset  folk — all 
neighbors  in  his  day  of  the  proud  Alan  Gordon  just 
passed — consented  to  nothing  in  Robert's  favor.  He 
had  been  passively  hateful  while  his  uncle  lived,  he 

31 


THE    THROWBACK 

was  actively  hateful  now  when  his  uncle  was  dead 
and  he  a  probable  heir. 

One's  sensibilities  are  safer  in  a  city.  The  bustle 
and  rush  of  the  crowd  are  a  kind  of  defense.  If, 
being  city-surrounded,  you  are  disapproved  of  or  dis 
liked,  he  who  entertains  the  feeling,  would  he  bring 
it  home,  must,  so  to  speak,  detain  you  by  the  elbow 
and  tell  you  of  it.  He  must  say  it  in  words  or  express 
it  by  overt  actions;  for  the  town-hubbub  of  the  herd 
defeats  an  inference  or  a  deduction  from  premises 
more  passive  and  less  gross. 

In  country  regions  the  rule  goes  the  other  way 
about.  There  folk  are  sparsely  sown.  There  like 
wise,  in  a  paucity  of  more  reasonable  amusements, 
gossip  protected  by  precedent  is  made  to  take  the 
place  of  reputable  entertainment.  Every  one  knows 
everybody  by  his  or  her  first  name,  and  your  farthest 
neighbor  can  tell  more  of  you  and  your  affairs  than 
even  you,  yourself,  might  relate.  It  is  under  such 
familiar,  close  conditions  that  personal  criticism,  in 
its  annoying  possibilities,  is  lifted  to  the  plane  of  art. 
Your  disrepute,  if  it  exists,  becomes  parcel  of  the 
very  atmosphere.  You  taste  it,  feel  it,  smell  it,  see 
it,  hear  it;  and  that,  too,  without  word  or  look  or 
gesture  on  the  parts  of  those  who  convey  to  you  the 
information. 

Thus  was  it  in  rural  Somerset;  and  thus  did 
Robert  Blainey  discover  his  own  bad  standing,  and 
the  low  esteem  in  which,  communally,  he  was  held. 
Here  was  a  thorn  he  had  not  counted  on.  Robert 
owned  enough  of  pride  to  make  the  situation  gall 
and  wormwood  to  him.  The  fact  that  he  himself  had 

32 


OLD    ALAN    GORDON'S    WILL 

had  some  original  hand  in  the  brewing  thereof,  ren 
dered  it  none  the  less  bitter  to  his  taste. 

During  those  dozen  or  more  years  in  which  Robert 
lived  at  the  Gordon  mansion,  he  had  played  the  young 
lordling  to  the  hilts.  Weakened  and  shattered  by 
the  disappearance  of  his  son,  old  Alan  Gordon  went 
seeking  sympathy,  dumbly,  from  all  about  him.  This 
reaching  out  for  support  led  him  into  an  attitude  of 
affection,  almost  childish,  toward  Robert;  on  this, 
the  latter,  being  imaginative  in  a  bilious  selfish  way, 
had  builded  many  an  air-castle.  It  spelled  heirship 
to  him,  and  on  it  his  mean  nature  was  nourished 
as  on  the  milk  of  lions.  It  gave  him  courage  to  be 
insolent,  strength  to  strut,  and  filled  him  to  the  brim 
with  the  vanity — usual  in  the  instance  of  your  pro 
moted  vulgarian — that  transacts  itself  at  the  expense 
of  other  men. 

Some  natures  are  nobly  proud;  also  such  natures 
nobly  pay  the  bills  which  their  prides  contract.  This 
was  not  the  case  with  Robert,  in  whom  nothing  of 
nobleness  abode.  With  him,  authority  meant  ty 
ranny  and  pride  was  the  synonym  of  oppression. 
Brought  face  to  face  with  power,  that  is  danger,  he 
would  have  fawned,  and  cringed,  and  been  a  syco 
phant  for  safety's  sake.  By  the  same  token,  passing 
his  youth  and  young  manhood  on  a  peak — the  peak 
of  the  Somerset  Gordons — and  far  above  and  beyond 
the  reach  of  any  local  social  artillery,  he  waxed  super 
cilious,  contemptuous;  while  his  manners,  if  they 
may  be  called  manners,  smelled  of  the  essence  of  in 
sult. 

Nor  was  Robert  more  wise  or  guarded  in  his  utter- 
33 


THE    THROWBACK 

ances.  Often  he  gave  the  country  folk  a  glimpse 
of  those  air-castles,  and  he  had  been  prone  to  boast 
himself  as  the  decreed  heir  of  old  Alan  Gordon.  He 
would  speak  of  his  uncle's  will  as  of  a  document  he 
had  read,  and  had  had  some  consulting  hand  in 
making.  Then,  coarsely  anticipating  old  Alan's 
death,  he  expatiated  on  what  should  be  his  con 
duct  when  he  might  write  himself  master  of  the 
great  white  Gordon  mansion  buried  among  its  trees. 

The  will  of  old  Alan  Gordon  was  to  Robert  both  a 
surprise  and  a  blow.  For  one  disconcerting  thing, 
it  gave  the  lie  direct  to  those  heirship  boasts  of  which 
he  had  been  so  foolishly  profuse.  To  be  ousted  from 
the  Gordon  mansion,  was  of  itself  like  being  stripped 
of  some  star  and  garter  of  nobility.  The  cottage 
into  which  Aunt  Tilda  and  Ethel  and  he  had  re 
moved  became  a  visible  sign  of  Ms  fallen  estate. 

Not  only  did  Robert  keenly  realize  these  grinding 
truths,  but  the  good  Somerset  folk,  lest  in  some  blind 
ness  of  a  fatuous  self-conceit  he  overlook  them,  were 
wont  to  remind  him  of  them  in  countless  ingenious 
ways.  Once,  in  speaking  of  what  he  would  do  when 
he  came  into  his  fortune  as  the  heir  of  old  Alan, 
and  was  the  unbridled  lord  of  the  Gordon  mansion, 
he  had  said  that,  abandoning  Blainey,  he  should 
change  his  name  to  Gordon.  This  was  recalled  by 
ones  with  talents  for  irritation;  and  many  were  the 
inquiries,  put  with  a  sober  slyness  that  baffled  re 
prisal,  as  to  whether  or  no  now  his  uncle  was  dead 
he  desired  to  be  addressed  as  "Mr.  Gordon."  In 
every  fashion  was  he  made  to  feel  the  general  jeer, 
and  this  went  on  until — alwavs  melancholy — he  be- 

34 


OLD    ALAN    GORDON'S    WILL 

came  morbid.  Aunt  Tilda  and  Ethel  heard  naught 
and  knew  less  of  this  bed  of  nettles  whereon  the  un 
fortunate  Robert  lay  stretched.  As  he  was  hated 
and  despised,  so  were  they  respected  and  loved;  and, 
while  he  lived  in  the  shadow,  they  dwelt  in  the  neigh 
borhood  sun. 

Finally,  those  sharply  disagreeable  surroundings 
spurred  Robert  to  a  desperate  leap.  He  made  up 
his  mind  to  abandon  Somerset.  In  coming  to  this 
mighty  decision,  there  were  certain  reasons,  not  in 
cluded  among  those  which  had  their  roots  in  the  ill- 
will  of  those  Somerset  good  people,  that  had  no  little 
weight  with  him.  The  lost  Alan  might  still  be  some 
where  upon  the  earth.  He  might  even  seek  to  es 
tablish  communication  with  Somerset.  Now  a  let 
ter  to  his  father,  and  his  father  dead,  would  infallibly 
fall  into  the  honest  hands  of  Aunt  Tilda.  Such  a 
ruinous  contingency  must  be  fended  against.  It 
would  be  the  part  of  cautious  wisdom,  if  the  step 
might  be  managed,  to  carry  Aunt  Tilda  as  far  from 
Somerset,  and  from  Maryland  itself,  as  she  would  go 
— so  far,  indeed,  as  to  fairly  cut  off  communication 
with  the  old  home.  Having  achieved  such  isolation, 
he  must  contrive  to  maintain  it  throughout  those  ten 
waiting  years.  Then  young  Alan's  letter,  should  he 
send  one,  would  not  be  replied  to,  and  the  silence 
thus  arranged  would  prevent — so  Robert  hoped — 
his  return.  Thus  did  he  consider  and  connive;  and 
those  plans  he  was  thereby  moved  to  build  were 
pleasant  to  him,  becoming  as  manna  that  melted 
on  the  lips  of  his  native  genius  for  intrigue. 

There  arose  a  second  argument,  almost  as  cogent 
35 


THE    THROWBACK 

with  Robert  as  was  the  one  just  rehearsed,  an  argu 
ment  which  should  meet  perhaps  with  a  more  tolerant 
sympathy.  In  a  shifty  secret  fashion,  concealing  it 
as  though  disclosure  meant  shame,  he  was  in  love 
with  Ethel. 

There  was  nothing  nobly  creditable  in  this  love, 
albeit  it  might  be  pointed  to  as  that  sentiment  least 
discreditable  to  which  his  narrow  breast  gave  refuge. 
It  was  not  the  love  of  an  aggressive  masculinity, 
deep-chested  and  commanding,  that  seizes  without 
question  put,  and  upon  which  the  feminine  refusal 
is  wasted  and  of  no  effect,  since  there  was  not  enough 
to  be  stark  and  manly  in  his  fiber  for  such  love  to 
feed  upon.  A  coward — speaking  of  the  male — is 
never  a  lover  in  that  larger  sense  required  of  the 
role;  and  Robert  was  a  coward.  It  may  be  taken 
as  one  of  love's  truisms  that  he  who  cannot  face  a 
man,  can  still  less  face  a  woman.  Also,  a  woman 
before  she  can  love  must  look  up;  and  it  is  woman's 
nature  to  look  up  only  to  courage. 

With  these,  the  laws  of  love,  Robert,  as  a  mere 
result  of  instinct,  felt  himself  defeated  in  his  hopes 
of  Ethel  before  he  had  made  a  first  advance.  Ethel, 
warm  in  her  womanhood,  and  woman  to  the  heart, 
could  not  love  down,  but  must  love  up;  how,  then, 
was  he  to  have  her? — he  who  was  so  wholly  her  in 
ferior!  This  was  the  query  which  his  instinct  put, 
and  shrunk  from  having  answered. 

Incapable  of  the  positive  and  the  direct,  Robert 
had  never  told  his  love  to  Ethel.  His  poor  confi 
dence  had  never  risen  even  to  the  little  heights  of 
hinting  it.  The  best  he  might  do  was  fall  to  plot- 

36 


OLD    ALAN    GORDON'S    WILL 

ting,  just  as  a  rat  might  fall  to  gnawing;  and  with 
that  it  came  to  him  as  a  thought — as  in  the  instance 
of  Aunt  Tilda,  where  the  motive  was  fear  instead  of 
love — to  carry  her  primarily  from  out  the  midst  of 
men.  He  was  just  male  enough  to  understand  in 
every  other  male  of  his  tribe  a  rival;  thus  far  his 
nature  ran  true.  Proceeding,  therefore,  one  step  at 
a  time,  as  the  weak  ever  slowly  must,  it  would  be  in 
the  direction  of  final  triumph,  to  divorce  her  as  much 
as  might  be  from  every  masculine  influence  other 
than  his  own. 

With  these  thoughts  running  in  his  head  concern 
ing  both  Ethel  and  Aunt  Tilda,  and  to  escape  those 
acrid  Somerset  conditions  which  hedged  him  round 
like  fire,  Robert  turned  his  scheming  eyes  to  the 
wilderness  of  the  far  Southwest,  as  offering  those 
lonesome  advantages  whereof  he  was  in  search. 
There  were  his  twenty  thousand  dollars!  He  would 
invest  in  cattle.  To  what  better  opportunity  could 
his  limited  fortune  be  addressed?  In  ten  years,  by 
all  he  could  learn,  those  twenty  thousand  dollars, 
planted  in  a  ranch,  would  bring  forth  a  tenfold  har 
vest.  He  could  return  to  Somerset  rich  in  his  own 
right,  and  add  the  new7  wealth  he  had  gathered  to 
that  wealth  which  would  then  be  his  by  Alan  Gor 
don's  will.  He  would  take  possession  of  the  Gordon 
mansion,  and  set  up  lord  in  earnest.  Also,  he  must 
have  his  hour  of  vengeance  upon  those  sneering  ones. 

The  longer  Robert  dwelt  upon  that  programme 
of  emigration  and  investment,  the  better  he  liked  it. 
He  had  heard  of  two  birds  and  one  stone;  this  would 
be  a  triple  killing.  It  would  give  him  the  woman  he 

37 


THE    THROWBACK 

loved;  it  would  reduce  to  minimum  the  chance  of 
young  Alan's  return;  it  would  pour  down  golden 
profits  on  those  twenty  thousand  dollars.  Aside 
from  these,  it  would  presently  take  him  out  of  a 
Somerset  environment  that  was  as  a  garment  of 
thorns. 

Having  made  his  plan  and  arranged  his  reasons  to 
support  it,  Robert  laid  the  proposition  before  Aunt 
Tilda.  He  was,  he  said,  young,  idle,  without  a  pro 
fession;  he  was  pressed  upon  by  the  propriety  of 
doing  something.  The  Southwest  offered  a  most 
hopeful  field. 

"Give  me  your  judgment,  now,"  said  he.  "At 
the  same  time" — here  he  bent  a  filial  eye  upon  Aunt 
Tilda — "you  must  not  forget,  dear  Aunt,  that  I  shall 
engage  in  nothing,  go  nowhere,  that  separates  me 
from  you  and  Ethel.  Do  not  counsel  me  to  take  the 
step  which  I've  outlined,  unless  you  are  willirg  to  go 
with  me.  I  shall  need  your  care;  I  tell  you  frankly 
that  no  argument  of  money-profit  could  for  one  mo 
ment  reconcile  me  to  the  loss  of  it.  Go  or  stay,  it  is 
settled  that  I  must  be  with  you  and  Ethel." 

At  this  fine  passage,  Robert  was  so  much  a  master 
of  policy  as  to  kiss  Aunt  Tilda;  and  he  managed  the 
caress  quite  knowingly.  The  worthy  lady,  thus  ap 
proached,  was  obviously  touched.  A  woman  as  a 
rule  likes  to  think  herself  indispensable,  and  Aunt 
Tilda  was  no  exception.  Besides,  Robert  had  come 
at  her  on  her  motherly  side,  where  the  defenses  were 
weakest.  She  was  both  flattered  and  melted;  and 
while  it  cost  her  an  effort,  and  filled  her  with  misgiv 
ings,  she  bravely  and  at  once  agreed  that  his  design 

38 


OLD   ALAN    GORDON'S    WILL 

seemed  one  of  solvent  wisdom,  and  promised  to 
accompany  him  wherever  he  should  go. 

Aunt  Tilda  was  the  more  satisfied;  for  she  had 
long  harbored  a  wish  that  Robert  would  apply  him 
self  in  some  vigorous,  manly  direction.  She  believed 
in  work,  Aunt  Tilda  did,  as  she  believed  in  the  current 
of  a  brook,  and  held  it  to  be  a  purification.  Idleness, 
and  whether  one  were  pressed  by  money-need  or  no 
was  no  other  nor  better  than  just  so  much  stagnant 
disgrace.  Her  respect  for  Robert  took  on  weight, 
when  now  he  turned  ambitious  to  be  no  more  a  drone. 

Aunt  Tilda  re-told  the  talk  with  Robert  to  Ethel; 
and  because  it  pleased  Aunt  Tilda — this  plan  of  emi 
gration — it  pleased  Ethel.  With  this  for  the  start, 
details  were  soon  arranged,  and  within  two  months 
thereafter  the  trio  found  themselves  in  Galveston. 

It  has  been  ever  easy  to  buy  a  cattle  ranch  in 
Texas;  in  good  truth  it  has  been  ever  easier  to  buy 
than  to  sell  one.  Within  a  fortnight  after  he  stepped 
ashore  Robert,  counseled  somewhat  by  Aunt  Tilda 
and  the  Professor,  had  become  the  proprietor  of  the 
Bar-Z  outfit,  with  ranges  on  the  upper  Canadian.  It 
was  only  a  small  outfit,  as  brands  and  ranches  go, 
with  perhaps  a  thousand  head  of  cattle,  and  what 
ponies  were  required  to  "work"  them.  Still  one 
may  not  make  himself  cattle-master  of  a  hundred 
herds,  with  twenty  thousand  dollars.  Our  investor 
took  enough  for  his  money,  and  was  fortunate  to  fare 
so  well. 


39 


CHAPTER   IV 
IRONJACKET'S   LOST  MEDICINE 

FOR  ten  minutes  after  the  lodge  of  Ironjacket  had 
been  left  behind,  silence  prevailed  among  those  in 
the  surrey.  This  may  have  been  due  to  the  break 
neck  gait  which,  under  Cato's  urging,  the  mules  main 
tained.  The  pitching  of  the  light  vehicle  among  the 
ruts  was  not  conducive  to  conversation.  Cato's  orig 
inal  fears  had  been  in  no  wise  mollified  by  the  stop, 
and  he  went  cracking  his  thong  along  the  backs  of 
his  cattle  as  though  some  wide-mouthed  peril  pur 
sued.  At  last  Professor  Doremus  put  out  a  caution 
ary  hand. 

"Not  so  fast,"  he  cried,  "not  so  fast,  Cato.  We've 
left  the  wagons  far  behind." 

Cato  retired  his  lash  from  circulation  and  glanced 
nervously  over  his  shoulder.  The  thin  pencil  of 
smoke  among  the  cottonwoods,  that  marked  the 
camp-fire  of  Ironjacket,  was  half  a  mile  astern,  and 
Cato  drew  a  long  breath. 

"I  s'ppose  it's  d'  way  I'm  made,  Professah,"  he 
began  apologetically;  "but  all  d'  time  we  was  idlin' 
about  dem  Injuns,  I  expec's  every  minute's  goin' 
to  be  our  nex'.  It  jes'  sets  me,  once  we  does  get 
started,  to  pourin'  d'  leather  into  d'  mules." 

"Old  Tom  Moonlight!"  repeated  Professor  Dore 
mus.  The  mules  had  been  subdued  to  a  walk,  and 

40 


IRONJACKET'S    LOST    MEDICINE 

he  was  speaking  now  to  Aunt  Tilda  and  Robert. 
"Truly,  an  odd  prefix  for  one  who,  obviously,  has  not 
seen  thirty  years." 

"  Not  so  odd  as  his  manner,"  fumed  Robert.  "  Had 
he  been  a  gentleman,  I  might  have  called  him  to 
book." 

Robert  was  fed  upon  by  that  anger  which  weak 
men  feel  toward  themselves,  when  a  peril  they 
failed  to  face  has  passed  by.  His  brow  was  hot  and 
red.  With  those  hard,  gray  eyes  a  half  mile  away, 
he  really  and  for  the  moment  felt  capable  of  bitter 
deeds. 

"That  look  of  insult  the  fellow  cast  upon  me," 
Robert  went  on,  "would  have  merited  attention, 
had  he  been  of  my  station." 

Professor  Doremus  coughed  in  a  queer  way. 

"There  arose  naught  to  indicate  that  this  Mr. 
Moonlight  was  not  a  gentleman."  The  remark,  in 
its  inflection,  took  the  upward  twist  of  criticism. 
Plainly,  Robert's  ready  dismissal  of  the  cool  Moon 
light,  as  one  beneath  his  haughty  notice,  did  not 
invoke  the  approval  of  the  Professor.  "  For  myself, 
I  make  it  a  rule  to  presume  every  man  a  gentleman 
until  the  contrary  is  shown." 

"Then,"  observed  Robert,  growing  hotter  and 
redder,  "you  would  have  demanded  an  explana 
tion." 

"Why,  sir,  I  think  I  should."  The  Professor 
had  become  quite  stiff  and  ramrod  like.  "The  at 
titude  of  this  Mr.  Moonlight  was  not  explainable  save 
on  a  theory  of  contumely.  And,  while  I  realize" — 
here  the  Professor  stroked  his  thin  locks — "that  I 
am  come  of  a  day  when  men  were  not  nice  in  these 

41 


THE    THROWBACK 

matters,  I  hold  it  to  be  better  to  fight  ignorantly 
with  yokels  rather  than  let  one  gentleman  escape. " 

11  Mercy  on  us!"  exclaimed  Aunt  Tilda;  "you 
surely  would  not  counsel  Robert  to  a  duel,  Professor!" 

Aunt  Tilda  had  not  followed  the  talk  closely,  being 
plunged  in  thoughts  concerning  the  savage  house 
keeping  of  Madam  Southwind,  with  her  one-room 
skin  tent,  and  her  kitchen  the  ground  beneath  a  shel 
tering  tree.  She  was  wondering  how  a  Kiowa  wife 
managed  to  fry  or  boil,  or  in  truth  do  any  culinary 
thing  save  roast,  when  the  hardy  tenor  of  Professor 
Doremus'  observations  attracted  her. 

"Assuredly,  my  dear  Madam,"  said  the  Professor, 
with  a  deep  bow,  "I  would  counsel  no  one  to  so 
serious  a  step.  I  spoke  only  of  what,  under  certain 
conditions,  should  be  my  own  course." 

"And  do  you  defend  the  barbarism  of  dueling?" 

Aunt  Tilda  was  shocked. 

"I  do  riot  defend,  I  simply  accept  the  barbarism 
of  which  you  speak,  precisely  as  I  accept  every  other 
barbarism  of  my  time  and  place.  Also,  one  must  up 
hold  his  honor;  that  is  not  for  one  moment  to  be  de 
nied." 

"Honor!"  repeated  Aunt  Tilda.  She  had  begun 
to  recall,  how,  when  the  world  was  young  with  both 
of  them,  the  thin,  suave  Professor  had  had  fame  as  a 
fire-eater  of  most  sensitively  truculent  fiber.  This 
served  to  abate  astonishment  at  her  old  friend's 
bristling  views,  while  in  no  sort  diminishing  her 
condemnation.  "I  do  not  understand,"  she  contin 
ued,  "  how  one's  honor  can  be  put  in  question  by  a 
mere  stranger  who  sees  fit  to  be  rude.  Like  Robert,  I 
think  the  young  man  beneath  notice.  Although, 

42 


IRONJACKET'S    LOST    MEDICINE 

doubtless" — Aunt  Tilda  feared  to  be  unjust— -" his 
wild  surroundings,  and  want  of  opportunity,  are  to 
blame  for  his  boorishness." 

Here  befell  the  unexpected.  Ethel  had  been  hold 
ing  Jet  close  to  the  surrey's  wheel.  She  now  claimed 
her  part. 

" There  was  no  boorishness,  dear  aunt!"  cried 
Ethel.  Her  manner  was  wondrous  passionate.  "He 
held  us  in  contempt;  that  was  all.  I  could  see  it 
while  he  glared  at  Robert;  I  felt  it  when  he  turned 
away." 

Like  Robert,  Ethel  was  angry  with  herself.  She, 
too,  had  felt  the  spell  of  those  gray  eyes;  and  she 
resented  it.  They  had  not  alarmed  her,  as  they 
alarmed  Robert;  worse,  they  had  fascinated  her. 
For  the  first  time  in  her  young  life  there  had  come 
a  man  who  made  the  pretty  Ethel  think  twice  of 
him.  This  ruffled  her  spirit;  to  her  girl's  instincts 
it  seemed  to  speak  of  weakness,  and  rendered  her 
impatient  and  uneasy. 

"There  was  no  impression  of  the  boor  about  him/' 
she  continued.  Her  tone  was  lower  now.  "His 
face  was  high  and  noble,  and  he  carried  an  atmos 
phere  of  command."  Then,  with  a  sudden,  angry 
pointlessness,  wholly  diagonal  arid  feminine,  she 
wheeled  upon  Robert:  "I  wonder  you  did  not  strike 
him!" 

Robert's  look  grew  black  enough.  Vaguely  he  felt 
that  he  had  lost  place  with  Ethel,  as  he  had  with 
the  Professor.  As  vaguely,  yet  no  less  surely,  he 
knew  that  she  was,  even  then,  mentally  comparing 
him  with  the  stranger,  to  his,  Robert's  disadvantage. 
This  set  his  jealousy  afire,  and  gave  his  hate  a  double 

43 


THE    THROWBACK 

reason.  He  would  have  replied,  but  could  fashion 
nothing  to  help  his  case.  While  he  paused,  wordless, 
the  Professor  again  spoke  up. 

"I  would  not  offend,"  said  he,  "but,  as  Miss  Ethel 
has  said,  this  Mr.  Moonlight  owned  every  mark  above 
the  common.  Mr.  Home  himself  spoke  of  him  as 
though  he  dealt  with  a  demigod.  Really,  my  dear 
Madam,  I  do  not  think  that  any  gentleman,  having 
in  view  his  own  honor,  could  safely  overlook  an  in 
sult  at  his  hands." 

Professor  Doremus  cast  upon  Aunt  Tilda  a  respect 
ful  but  still  a  firmly  warlike  eye,  as  though  concerning 
this  topic  of  ticklish  honor  he  would  combat  even  her. 

Beholding  which,  and  privily  approving,  she  smiled 
back  upon  him  a  smile  of  pleased  submission.  A 
woman  likes  deference  in  a  man,  but  she  does  not 
want  him  to  surrender  to  her.  She  will  now  and 
then  confute  him,  and  give  him  battle,  but  she  does 
not  desire  to  defeat  him.  Indeed,  victory  embar 
rasses  a  true  woman;  she  knows  not  what  to  do  with 
triumph.  She  is  not  looking  so  much  for  conquest 
as  for  protection,  when  she  marches  forth  to  meet  a 
man,  and  she  will  forgive  in  him  anything,  every 
thing,  except  being  weaker  than  herself.  When, 
therefore,  her  ancient  admirer  stood  stubbornly,  even 
against  her  revered  word,  in  defense  of  that  primal 
manly  franchise  to  war  with  other  and  contumelious 
members  of  his  sex,  Aunt  Tilda  could  not  repress  an 
amiable  ray.  Moreover,  the  word  "Honor,"  as  it  fell 
from  the  Professor — for  she  had  not  read  her  ballads 
for  nothing — recalled  old  Lovelace: 

"I  could  not  love  thee,  dear,  so  much, 
Loved  I  not  honor  moro." 
4.4 


IRONJACKET'S    LOST    MEDICINE 

It  would  be  difficult  to  say  into  just  what  con 
cessions  Aunt  Tilda  was  upon  the  brink  of  being  be 
trayed,  concessions  which,  added  to  the  stiff  pose  of 
the  Professor  and  the  resentful  sparkle  of  Ethel, 
would  have  weighed  crushingly  upon  Robert,  if  a 
new  and  to  the  latter  gentleman  a  more  interesting 
subject  had  not  thrust  itself  upon  the  conversation. 
They  were  now  abreast  of  that  rocky  point  re 
marked  by  the  obliging  Jeff  in  his  last  directions, 
and  there  before  them  rose  the  mud  walls  of  Cap 
tain  Ruggles'  home-ranch. 

When  Cato  went  whipping  away,  Jeff  Home  stood 
watching  the  surrey's  headlong  departure  with  a 
smile. 

"That  darky's  stampeded,"  said  he  to  himself. 
"Now  I  wonder  was  it  Ironjacket's  black  paint  or 
the  Cap'n's  scowl!" 

Jeff  Home  had  two  titles  for  his  companion.  When 
he  named  him  to  others,  he  referred  to  him  as  "Old 
Tom  Moonlight."  To  himself,  or  when  he  addressed 
that  gentleman  personally,  he  hailed  him  as  "Cap'n." 

Southwind  looked  up  from  the  fire,  and  spoke  a 
word  or  two  in  a  broken  jumble  of  Kiowa  and  Span 
ish.  Thereupon  Jeff  lost  interest  in  the  vanishing 
surrey  in  favor  of  something  nearer  his  heart  and  his 
hand.  Southwind  had  announced  her  savage  dinner; 
the  antelope  was  roasted  to  a  turn. 

"Cap'n!"  cried  Jeff;   "Oh  Cap'n!" 

Moonlight  was  standing  where  he  had  taken  position 
after  staring  Robert  hot  and  cold  and  hot  again.  At 
the  call  he  turned  his  head. 

"Chuck!"  said  Jeff. 

45 


THE    THROWBACK 

Having  thus  announced  the  repast  and  done,  as  he 
would  have  thought,  his  full  duty  in  the  premises, 
Jeff  seized  upon  the  antelope  rib  which  Southwind 
tendered,  and  fell  to,  wolfishly. 

"Good  conscience,  good  appetite!"  he  ruminated 
philosophically.  "Thar's  nothin'  so  condoocive  to 
health,  that-away,  as  a  strickly  moral  life." 

Moonlight  was  not  a  whit  behind  Jeff  so  far  as 
appetite  was  involved,  albeit  he  managed  with  less 
wolfishness  and  more  delicacy. 

"That  gent  in  the  surrey,  Cap'n,"  observed  Jeff, 
the  wire-edge  of  his  hunger  worn  away,  "was  a  fool," 

"He'll  know  more  later." 

The  voice  was  full,  deep,  musical,  and  in  keeping 
with  the  noble  face.  Ethel  and  the  Professor  were 
right;  the  most  casual  survey  would  have  exempted 
Moonlight  from  any  imputation  of  the  commonplace. 
He  was  above  a  middle  height,  slim,  long  in  the  reach, 
with  rounded  chest,  and  wide,  powerful  shoulders. 
His  hands  and  feet  were  as  small  as  those  of  a  dandy 
or  an  Indian.  His  skin,  tanned  almost  to  an  aborigi 
nal  copper,  showed  him  no  newcomer  to  the  plains. 
The  expression  of  his  face — to  quote  from  Ethel — 
was  high  and  noble;  and  yet  the  pronounced  cheek 
bones,  lean,  curved  nose,  clean  angles  at  chin  and  jaw, 
told  of  the  predatory.  The  wonder  of  the  man  lurked 
in  those  gray  eyes,  which  danced  or  drew  to  a  level 
stare,  were  soft  as  a  woman's  or  hard  as  agate,  ac 
cording  to  their  owner's  mood.  Over  all  abode  dig 
nity  and  domination  without  truculence.  And,  yet, 
given  anger  as  an  element  and  an  enemy  to  be  the 
object,  one  could  feel  a  latent  genius  for  vengeance 
and  reprisal.  One  might  have  found  an  easier  foe; 

46 


IRONJACKET'S    LOST    MEDICINE 

there  was  that  about  him  which  furnished,  even 
to  the  thickest  and  most  careless,  a  thought  of  the 
tiger  asleep. 

Having  dined  to  his  satisfaction,  Jeff  regaled  him 
self  with  a  huge  mouthful  of  tobacco.  Moonlight 
rolled  and  lighted  a  cornhusk  cigarette  with  the  dex 
terity  of  a  Mexican.  After  a  lazy  puff  or  two  he 
glanced  at  Jeff.  There  was  a  questioning  slant  in  the 
glance  that  set  Jeff  talking. 

"The  old  gent,  who  called  himself  Professor  Dore- 
mus  and  lectured  on  antelopes,  was  clean  strain. 
He  wasn't  like  t'other.  An'  as  for  that  lady — the 
one  I  talked  with — thar's  nothin'  of  the  long  horn 
about  her.  She  was  shore  'nough  corn-fed,  or  I'm 
no  judge  of  cattle." 

Moonlight,  the  taciturn,  blew  pale,  thick  rings  of 
smoke.  He  was  thinking  of  the  girl  on  the  black 
pony;  and  since  his  thoughts  ran  to  the  effect  that 
she  was  sublime  in  her  dark,  soft  beauty,  he  did 
not  frame  them  into  words.  His  impressions  of  Ethel 
would  have  been  wasted  upon  Jeff  and  made  only  a 
crying  instance  of  pearls  and  swine. 

" They're  the  outfit  that  bought  the  Bar-Z  ranch." 
Jeff  tossed  this  off  lest  Moonlight  be  behind  on  Pan 
handle  gossip.  "About  a  day's  pull  up  the  river  the 
home-ranch  is.  They'll  stay  at  old  Ruggles'  to 
night." 

Moonlight  puffed  on  without  comment. 

"Frosty  told  me  at  Tascosa,"  continued  Jeff, 
naming  a  gifted  gambler  of  his  acquaintance,  "that 
old  Ruggles  was  goin'  to  give  a  baile.  It's  day  after 
to-morrow.  Frosty's  comin'  up  to  turn  a  little  monte 
for  the  Mexicans.  He  ought  to  win  a  peso  or  two, 

47 


THE    THROWBACK 

Frosty  had.  When  it  gets  down  to  kyards,  he's  as 
cunnin'  as  a  pet  fox.  I  wonder  now  what's  old  Rug- 
gles'  little  game  in  givin'  this  fandango." 

"  There  should  be  nothing  strange  about  it,"  ob 
served  Moonlight,  rolling  a  second  cigarette.  "Rug- 
gles  is  more  of  a  Mexican  than  a  white  man.  His 
wife  was  a  Mexican — a  Baca.  Now  his  daughter 
is  to  marry  a  Baca — a  Don  Anton  Baca,  from  over 
near  Chaparita.  The  baile  is  in  honor  of  their  be 
trothal." 

"Not  your  Don  Anton  Baca?" 

Jeff  had  pricked  up  his  ears  at  the  name. 

"You've  guessed  it.  It  was  his  peons  who  tore  my 
buffalo  camp  to  pieces  last  fall,  and  cut  and  slashed 
two  hundred  robes  for  me." 

"An'  then  left  a  moccasin  behind,"  jeered  Jeff 
in  vast  contempt  for  the  stratagem,  "to  make  you 
think  they  was  Injuns." 

"But  forgot,"  went  on  Moonlight,  "to  mount  their 
ponies  from  the  right  side,  as  Indians  would,  and  so 
left  proof  as  plain  as  a  page  of  print  that  they  were 
Mexicans.  However,  there's  no  question.  I  ran 
their  trail  straight  to  the  Baca  ranch  on  the  Concha." 

"Ay!" — this,  with  a  satisfied  smile — "an'  cut  out 
two  hundred  head  of  Don  Anton's  fattest  steers,  an' 
drove  them  over  to  the  Palo  Duro  to  make  all  even. 
Two  hundred  steers  for  two  hundred  robes  is  proper 
good  barter.  To  keep  it  up  would  break  all  the  Ba- 
cas  between  the  Canadian  an'  the  Rio  Grande." 

Silence  fell  for  a  space. 

"Jeff,"  observed  Moonlight,  after  a  wordless  two 
minutes,  "I've  a  notion  to  attend  that  baile." 

"You're  the  doctor,  Cap'n!"  returned  Jeff,  dubi- 
48 


IRONJACKET'S    LOST    MEDICINE 

ously.  But  you  know  old  Ruggles  ain't  got  much 
use  for  us  buffalo  hunters.  He  allows  we  kill  his 
cattle.  Besides,  thar's  your  friend  Don  Anton. 
Don't  you-all  reckon,  Cap'n,  the  young  rico  has  missed 
them  two  hundred  steers  by  now?" 

"And  if  he  has?" 

"  No  thin'  much!  Only  under  all  them  circum 
stances  I  sort  o'  wondered  if  your  cuttin'  in  on  old 
Ruggles'  baile  might  not  lead  up  to  a  war." 

Moonlight  smiled  carelessly. 

"The  smoke  would  have  to  be  thick,  amigo,  to 
keep  me  from  seeing  my  way  through."  Then  rous 
ing  himself  with  a  manner  of  decision:  " How 
ever,  it's  settled;  I'll  be  at  that  betrothal  dance  of 
the  Senorita  Inez.  Also,  I  shall  want  my  best  horse. 
Catch  up  your  pony  and  ride  over  to  the  Palo  Duro; 
a  good  road  gait  should  bring  you  there  by  midnight, 
and  you'll  have  a  moon.  Meet  me  here  to-morrow 
night,  and  bring  President  with  you." 

"President?" 

"Yes,  President;  I've  an  impression  that  I  shall 
open  the  Mexican  eyes  before  we're  through,  and  to 
do  it  I'll  need  the  four  swiftest  hoofs  in  the  Pan 
handle." 

"An'  Red  River  Bill?— he'll  shore  want  to  come!" 

"I've  never  felt  the  worse  for  having  Red  River 
about.  But  you'd  better  call  up  your  pony,  and  pull 
out;  it's  quite  a  scramble  to  the  Palo  Duro,  and  you'll 
need  all  the  time." 

"An' you?" 

"I'll  camp  here  with  Ironjacket;  I  want  to  talk 
with  our  painted  friend." 

"You  couldn't  get  a  word  out  o'  him,  Cap'n,  now 
49 


THE    THROWBACK 

he's  lost  his  medicine  bag,  an'  got  himself  disgraced 
that-away  —  no,  not  if  you  was  to  bend  your  six- 
shooter  over  his  head." 

Jeff,  who  was  learned  as  to  Kiowas,  spoke  with 
confidence.  Moonlight,  with  quite  as  much  wisdom 
touching  Kiowas,  replied  with  equal  confidence. 

" Never  fear;   I'll  find  a  way  to  make  him  talk." 

Moonlight's  confidence  was  better  grounded  than 
was  that  of  Jeff's.  He  knew  what  he  was  going  to 
talk  about,  and  Jeff  did  not. 

It  was  a  forty-mile  run  from  the  Canadian  to  the 
Palo  Duro,  and  Jeff,  who  loved  his  ease,  sighed  woe 
fully  as  he  swung  into  the  saddle.  None  the  less  he 
did  not  hesitate,  for  the  word  of  Moonlight  was  his 
law.  With  a  dig  of  his  spurs,  and  a  farewell  " How!" 
to  Southwind  and  her  blooming  daughter,  he  cantered 
off  among  the  cottonwoods  toward  the  south. 

When  Jeff  had  departed,  Moonlight  cast  loose  the 
cinches,  and  drawing  the  saddle  from  his  already 
hobbled  pony,  threw  it  on  the  grass  by  the  camp 
fire.  Rummaging  in  one  of  the  war-bags  he  took  out 
a  sizable  bundle,  ambiguous  in  character,  but  as 
nearly  as  one  might  guess  in  the  twilight  now  gather 
ing  beneath  the  thick-boughed  trees,  the  skin  of  some 
animal  rolled  tight.  With  this  in  his  hands  he  ap 
proached  the  mournful  Ironjacket,  still  rigid  and 
moveless  as  a  statue. 

"How  fares  it  with  my  father?" 

Moonlight's  words  were  gravely  sympathetic.  Iron- 
jacket  never  gave  a  sign;  the  query  gained  not  the 
quiver  of  an  eyelash  in  reply.  It  was  as  though 
Moonlight  had  spoken  to  a  tree.  The  latter  went  on 
neither  astonished  nor  hurt. 

50 


IRONJACKET'S    LOST    MEDICINE 

"I  come,"  said  he,  "to  lift  shame  from  my  father's 
shoulders,  and  wash  the  black  from  his  face  and  the 
sorrow  from  his  heart.  Does  my  father  see?" 

Moonlight  undid  the  mysterious  roll  and  threw  it 
at  the  feet  of  Iron  jacket.  It  was  a  pouch  made  from 
the  whole  skin  of  a  beaver,  with  claws  and  teeth  and 
tail  retained. 

Ironjacket's  broad  breast  began  to  heave.  What 
Moonlight  had  tossed  down  before  him  was  as  the 
heaven  and  the  earth  to  him,  but,  beyond  that  strain 
ing  bosom  and  the  fire  gathering  in  his  eye,  he  con 
trolled  himself. 

"It  is  the  lost  medicine  of  Ironjacket!"  he  whis 
pered,  drawing  the  beaver  skin  pouch  toward  him  in 
a  mystified  way.  "The  medicine  of  Ironjacket  has 
come  back!" 

Casting  off  the  ragged  blanket,  he  sprang  to  his 
feet,  and  sent  a  yell,  that  was  as  a  proclamation  of 
self-respect,  reverberating  among  the  hills  which 
fenced  about  the  cottonwood  grove.  It  was  not 
defiant,  not  joyful,  that  yell.  It  was  simply  the 
reassertion  of  his  savage  manhood,  and  notice  to  the 
world  that  Ironjacket  had  once  more  taken  to  him 
self  the  high  place  that  was  his  in  the  ranks  of  the 
Kiowas. 


51 


CHAPTER   V 
THE   STORY   OF  THE   STEEL  SHIRT 

IRONJACRET  stood  for  a  moment  as  straight  as  a  pine 
—nostril  working,  eye  burning  with  pride.  Then  he 
wheeled  on  his  heel  and  stalked  into  his  lodge. 

Moonlight  rolled  a  fresh  cigarette  as  though  he 
were  alone.  The  Kiowa,  in  his  native  eccentricities, 
was  no  new  tale  to  him,  and  he  waited  the  return  of 
Ironjacket  without  remark.  Repose  is  the  founda 
tion  of  dignity  with  a  savage,  and  Moonlight  when  he 
dealt  with  Indians  became  as  one  of  them.  Besides 
it  was  not  his  " medicine"  that  had  been  lost  and 
was  now  returned;  his  good  repute  had  not  just 
been  lifted  from  the  mire.  It  was  easy  for  him  to  be 
cool,  and  preserve  a  steady  gravity  of  manner. 

Southwind  and  her  daughter  Firelight  understood 
all  that  had  passed,  and  could  construe  its  meaning 
in  their  dusky  destinies.  They  had  glowed  passively 
while  Ironjacket  was  near;  once  he  stepped  within 
the  lodge,  and  the  restraint  of  his  presence  was  with 
drawn,  they  chirped  to  each  other  like  a  brace  of 
catbirds.  A  squaw  has  no  dignity  to  keep  up.  She 
may  grow  as  excited  as  she  chooses.  She  may  wail 
with  sorrow  or  laugh  with  delight,  and  her  standing 
remain  untouched.  There  was  nothing  to  subdue  or 
silence  the  joy  of  Southwind  and  the  young  Firelight. 

52 


STORY    OF    THE    STEEL    SHIRT 

The  disgrace  of  the  husband  and  father — the  unspeak 
able  shame  of  a  man  who  has  lost  his  "  medicine  " — had 
attached  to  them,  since  tribally  they  must  rise  or 
fall  by  him.  They  had  been  as  outcasts;  now,  with 
the  lost  " medicine"  restored,  they  might  again  lead 
Kiowa  fashion  on  the  Rabbit  Ear.  It  was  their 
social  prospects,  so  splendidly  repaired,  that  fur 
nished  the  impulse  of  their  half-hysterical,  congratu 
latory  chatter. 

Ironjacket  came  forth  from  the  lodge,  and  that 
gratulatory  chatter  sunk  to  whisperings  and  ecstatic 
murmurs.  He  himself  was  in  gay  fresh  face  paints 
— yellow,  green  and  red.  Two  arrogant  eagle  feath 
ers  jutted  skyward  from  the  roots  of  his  scalp-lock. 
His  blanket  was  black  and  red.  Where  it  fell  away 
from  his  brawny  throat,  a  silver  medal  showed  pend 
ent  to  a  necklace  of  bear  claws.  Also  he  had  pinched 
silver  earrings  into  the  lobes  of  his  ears,  and  embel 
lished  his  belt  with  a  knife  and  tomahawk — steel- 
bright  and  glancing  in  the  flare  of  the  camp  fire. 

In  his  hand  Ironjacket  bore  his  reds  tone  "  medi 
cine"  pipe  of  ceremony,  brought  at  the  price  of  two 
lives  from  the  sacred  pipe-stone  quarries  a  long  twelve 
hundred  miles  to  the  north — quarries  guarded  from 
Kiowas  by  blood-hungry  Sioux  and  Pawnees.  Alto 
gether,  during  those  brief  moments  within  the  lodge, 
he  had  wrought  a  marvel  in  his  appearance.  He  had 
gone  in  the  tribal  vagrant — ragged,  painted  a  de 
jected  black.  He  came  out  brilliant,  prosperous  and 
proud — a  Kiowa  of  wealth,  station  and  respect. 

Shaking  the  rich  blanket  from  his  shoulders,  Iron- 
jacket  spread  it  like  a  sumptuous  rug  on  the  wind 
ward  side  of  the  fire,  and  in  Kiowa  invited  Moonlight 

53 


THE    THROWBACK 

to  occupy  it.  When  they  were  placed,  cross-legged 
like  two  tailors,  he  began  with  not  a  little  flourish  to 
fill  the  red-stone  pipe.  He  spoke  a  sharp  word  to 
Southwind.  That  obedient  woman  scrambled  to  her 
feet,  and  a  moment  later  planted  Ironjacket  7s  lance 
in  the  ground  at  the  door  of  the  lodge.  On  the  lance 
she  hung  his  war  shield.  The  long,  red  plume  of 
hawks'  feathers  that  adorned  the  center  of  the  shield 
tossed  in  the  slow  evening  breeze,  and  gave  notice 
that  here  a  warrior  lived — one  capable  for  peace  or 
strife,  or  whatever  other  manly  thing  might  be  de 
manded  of  him. 

The  pipe  being  filled  Ironjacket  lighted  it  with  a 
coal  of  fire,  and  blew  smoke  to  the  sky  above,  the 
earth  beneath,  and  lastly  to  the  setting  sun,  whose 
red  disk  just  showed  above  the  western  skyline.  He 
passed  the  pipe  to  Moonlight,  who  returned  the  peace 
ful  compliment  of  those  three  formal  smoke-puffs. 
Ceremony  being  satisfied,  Ironjacket  reclaimed  his 
pipe,  Moonlight  again  betook  himself  to  cigarettes, 
and  the  pair  settled  themselves  to  the  commonplace 
of  a  tobacco-comforted  evening. 

After  ten  minutes  of  silent  smoking,  Ironjacket 
bent  a  benignant  look  upon  Moonlight. 

"I  was  forgotten,"  said  Ironjacket  in  Kiowa,  "and 
my  son  restored  me;  I  was  dead,  and  he  has  made 
me  live.  My  son  is  a  warrior — I  have  seen  him  fight. 
But  some  day  he  may  have  too  many  enemies.  When 
that  morning  comes,  my  son  must  send  for  his  father. 
Nor  shall  his  father  be  far  to  seek.  Waiting  for  that 
hour,  Ironjacket  swears  by  his  l medicine/  and  by 
grass  and  water  and  the  fire  made  of  cedarwood,  that 
he  will  never  again  be  two  days'  ride  from  his  son." 

54 


STORY    OF    THE    STEEL    SHIRT 

"I  thank  my  father,  and  shall  not  forget/7  Moon 
light  answered,  as  he  had  been  addressed,  in  Kiowa. 
Then,  with  a  half  indolent,  half  curious  air,  as  though 
the  business  possessed  but  a  partial  interest,  he  asked : 
"Where  did  my  father  see  me  fight?" 

"On  the  banks  of  the  Beaver.  It  was  there  my 
son  killed  Sun  Boy.  It  was  a  fight  of  knives.7' 

"That  is  of  another  day,"  observed  Moonlight  mus 
ingly.  "The  buffaloes  have  gone  north  seven  times 
since  then.  Sun  Boy  belonged  with  the  Wolf  Robe 
band  of  Kiowas;  I  was  with  the  Kicking  Bird." 
Moonlight  got  this  off  tranquilly;  the  memory  of  that 
homicide  raised  never  a  ripple.  Dropping  the  filial, 
he  continued:  "I  remember  now;  Ironjacket  and 
Wolf  Robe  came  to  the  ground  with  Sun  Boy." 

"It  was  to  see  right  done,"  returned  Ironjacket, 
puffing  composedly.  "Sun  Boy  was  my  brother's 
son.  Moonlight  and  Sun  Boy  fought  about  a  squaw." 

"Ay!  a  squaw.  She  looked  at  me  twice ;  Sun 
Boy  grew  jealous  and  killed  her  with  his  war  axe." 

"She  was  an  idler  and  a  gad-about,"  quoth  Iron- 
jacket,  phlegmatically,  "and  tanned  no  buffalo  robes. 
Also,  she  saw  too  many  men  with  her  eyes.  Her 
name  was  Saucy  Osage.  After  she  died,  Kiowa 
squaws  worked  good.  Sun  Boy  did  well." 

"Perhaps!  But  I  did  not  like  it.  So  I  killed  Sun 
Boy  with  my  knife." 

"The  fight  was  fair,  and  Moonlight  is  a  mighty 
warrior;  his  heart  and  his  ' medicine'  are  strong. 
Sun  Boy  is  now  dead,  and  Moonlight  is  Ironjacket's 
son." 

As  though  to  re-emphasize  his  friendship,  Iron- 
jacket  again  passed  his  pipe  to  Moonlight,  who  quali- 

55 


THE    THROWBACK 

fied  the  peace  between  them  with  the  usual  three 
puffs.  There  came  another  smoky  silence,  which 
Ironjacket  was  the  first  to  break. 

"My  son  was  a  Kiowa  when  he  killed  Sun  Boy." 

"My  father  is  right.  I  was  a  Kiowa  of  the  band 
of  Kicking  Bird." 

"Kicking  Bird  —  Ta-ne-on-koe"  —repeated  Iron- 
jacket,  giving  the  Indian  pronunciation.  "He  was 
always  urging  the  Kiowas  to  follow  the  white  >man's 
trail,  and  do  as  the  white  man  did.  That  was  not 
well,  Kicking  Bird  should  have  thought  again.  The 
Indian  cannot  do  as  the  white  man  does;  his  hands 
are  too  small."  Ironjacket  held  out  his  two  hands 
which,  like  the  hands  of  most  Indians,  were  no  bigger 
than  a  woman's.  "An  Indian's  hands  are  big  enough 
to  pull  a  bow,  or  shoot  a  gun,  or  hold  a  lance,  or  stab 
with  a  knife;  but  they  are  not  big  enough  to  use  a 
hoe  or  guide  a  plow.  Kicking  Bird  talked  wrong 
talk.  So  thought  the  Great  Spirit;  for  when  Kick 
ing  Bird — who  would  be  as  a  white  man — took  a 
Mexican  woman  for  his  squaw,  she  put  poison  in 
his  cup.  Kicking  Bird  is  now  with  Sun  Boy.  But 
he  has  to  catch  and  saddle  Sun  Boy's  pony,  and 
carry  home  the  deer  that  he  kills,  for  Sun  Boy  met 
his  death  at  the  knife  of  a  warrior,  face  to  face,  while 
Kicking  Bird  was  poisoned  like  a  coyote  by  a  squaw." 

Moonlight  let  Ironjacket  dispose  as  he  would  of  the 
heavenly  fortunes  of  the  departed  Kicking  Bird. 
Ironjacket  knocked  the  ashes  from  the  redstone  pipe 
and  fumbled  in  his  pouch  for  more  tobacco. 

"My  son  is  no  longer  a  Kiowa.  Now  he  is  a  white 
man,  hunts  buffaloes,  holds  cattle,  and  lives  with 
other  white  men  on  the  Palo  Duro." 

56 


STORY    OF    THE    STEEL    SHIRT 

Moonlight  nodded. 

"My  son  has  no  squaw?" 

"No." 

"He  shall  have  the  Firelight." 

Moonlight  smiled,  and  pointed  to  the  small  figure 
of  a  bear,  in  blue  ink,  on  the  breast  of  Ironjacket. 

"A  bear  cannot  wed  with  a  bear,"  he  said.  Tear 
ing  open  his  shirt  at  the  throat,  Moonlight  displayed 
a  little  blue  bear  on  the  white  skin,  fellow  of  the  one 
that1  marked  the  breast  of  Ironjacket.  "It  cannot 
be;  we  are  both  bears,  and  the  Firelight  must  not  be 
my  squaw." 

The  young  lady  under  discussion  had  already  re 
tired  within  the  lodge  in  attendance  upon  her  mother, 
Southwind,  and  Ironjacket  and  Moonlight  were  alone. 
The  sensibilities  of  Firelight  were  thus  saved. 

The  prompt  disposal  of  his  offer  of  the  fair  Firelight 
did  not  ruffle  Ironjacket.  He  glanced  at  the  totem 
tattooed  on  the  breast  of  Moonlight,  and  grunted 
agreement. 

"My  son  is  right;  bear  and  bear  do  not  marry." 
Ironjacket  puffed  judgmatically:  "Besides,  much 
worry  comes  with  a  squaw.  She  wants  always  new 
things:  one  day  a  pony,  next  day  a  blanket.  When 
her  husband  is  asleep  she  talks  with  squaws  as  care 
less  as  herself;  and  while  she  talks  the  camp  fire  goes 
out." 

On  the  back  of  this  wisdom  conversation  fell  prone 
for  the  space  of  a  score  of  puffs  at  Ironjacket's  red- 
stone  pipe.  Moonlight  had  no  notion  of  proposing  a 
fresh  subject.  He  was  waiting  for  Ironjacket  to  talk 
about  his  beaver-skin  "medicine"  that  had  been  lost 
and  was  found  again.  Ironjacket  would  come  to  that 

57 


THE    THROWBACK 

in  time.  He  could  not  rush  to  it  as  a  topic;  to  do  so 
would  be  in  defiance  of  Kiowa  etiquette,  and  militate 
against  his  dignity.  Its  loss  had  been  worse  than 
death;  its  return  meant  more  than  life;  this  Iron- 
jacket  had  conceded,  and  would  act  upon  throughout 
his  life  in  favor  of  him  who  was  the  reason  of  his  re 
habilitation.  But  he  must  not  too  much  dwell  upon 
the  incident.  To  do  so  would  be  the  sign  of  a  woman, 
and  slight  his  manhood.  Moonlight  understood,  and 
kept  his  patience.  Ironjacket  was  bound  in  the  end 
to  recur  to  that  subject  of  the  " medicine"  bag.  An 
Indian  has  his  dignity;  but  also  he  has  his  curiosity. 

Ironjacket  began  finally  in  this  casual  fashion. 

"My  son  found  the  lost  'medicine'  of  his  father 
by  Wolf  Creek.  It  had  been  caught  in  the  bough 
of  a  little  tree." 

"I  found  my  father's  ' medicine'  by  the  salt  lakes 
back  of  Tulia."  Moonlight  wore  the  same  air  of 
careless  indifference  that  distinguished  Ironjacket. 
"Gray  Horse,  the  Comanche,  was  wearing  it.  He 
had  bragged  that  he  took  it  in  battle." 

The  cords  in  Ironjacket's  throat  began  to  swell 
rancorously. 

"Gray  Horse  lied.  The  Comanches  ambushed  us 
in  the  thick  bushes  by  Wolf  Creek.  My  'medicine7 
was  tied  to  my  lance,  and  when  I  charged  it  was  torn 
off  by  the  branches.  For  one  whole  moon  I  sought 
it,  but  it  was  not  to  be  found.  The  lying  Gray  Horse 
had  picked  it  up.  Now  I  shall  search  for  this  two- 
tongue;  when  I  have  found  him  he  will  talk  no  more 
lies." 

Moonlight  reached  for  his  bridle  that  had  been 
thrown  on  the  grass  by  his  saddle.  From  the  bits 

58 


STORY   OF    THE    STEEL    SHIRT 

depended  a  black  glossy  braid  of  hair.    This  he  dis 
engaged  and  tossed  to  Ironjacket. 

" There  is  his  scalp,"  said  he,  "and  my  father  is 
too  late.  Gray  Horse  ate  my  buffalo  meat,  and 
smoked  my  pipe.  Then  he  crept  in  among  my  horses 
to  steal;  for  Gray  Horse  was  a  thief  as  well  as  a  liar. 
It  was  in  the  night;  but  my  eye  was  open  and  my 
ear  awake.  So  I  shot  him  with  my  buffalo  gun,  and 
brought  my  father  back  his  ' medicine.'  Also,  my 
father  may  keep  the  scalp;  it  will  give  him  a  good 
heart." 

Ironjacket's  black  eyes  snapped  and  blazed,  as  he 
fondled  the  thick  braid  of  hair. 

"I  will  tie  it  to  my  'medicine/ "  he  said.  "It  shall 
be  as  a  warning  to  liars." 

After  surveying  for  a  moment  the  beaver-skin, 
which  was  as  the  outward  husk  of  that  important 
"medicine,"  Ironjacket  opened  it  at  the  laced  slash 
between  the  forelegs,  and  thrust  in  his  hand.  One 
by  one  with  his  searching  ringers  he  counted  over 
those  several  occult  odds  and  ends  that  together 
made  up  his  fetish.  Nothing  was  missing,  as  one 
might  tell  by  the  satisfied  twinkle  of  his  eyes. 

"It  is  good!"  said  he.  "But  yet"— he  looked 
inquiringly  at  Moonlight — "how  did  my  son  know  it 
was  the  'medicine'  of  his  father?" 

"Am  I  not  a  Kiowa?  Do  I  not  know  a  Kiowa 
'medicine'  even  on  a  thieving  Comanche?  Does  not 
every  Kiowa  know  Ironjacket?  The  trail  to  my 
father  was  neither  long  nor  hard.  I  knew  that  he 
must  be  mourning  for  his  loss,  so  I  came  at  once. 
Let  me  ask  my  father:  Is  there  nothing  gone?  He 
should  feel  in  his  beaver-skin  bag  again." 

59 


THE    THROWBACK 

"  All  is  there,"  reported  Ironjacket,  after  a  second  and 
more  thorough  exploration.  "  There  is  nothing  lost." 

Moonlight  held  out  a  buckskin  packet,  stained  with 
time,  and  whipped  about  with  deer-sinews. 

"Did  my  father  ever  see  this?"  he  asked.  "I  took 
it  from  my  father's  'medicine'  bag,  when  I  stripped 
it  from  the  shoulders  of  the  lying  Gray  Horse.  Had 
the  Comanche  put  it  there?" 

Ironjacket  took  the  buckskin  packet  into  his  hands, 
and  looked  it  over  with  familiar  interest. 

"This  I  have  seen  always,"  said  Ironjacket.  "I 
had  it  from  my  father;  whose  father  had  it  from  his 
father  before  him.  It  was  with  my  l medicine,'  but 
it  was  not  part  of  it.  No" — and  Ironjacket  again 
recurred  to  his  scrutiny  of  the  buckskin  packet — 
"no;  this  was  the  ' medicine'  of  a  white  face  who 
died  long  ago — so  long  ago  that  this  river" — tossing 
his  hand  toward  the  Canadian — "was  young  when 
he  died." 

"I  have  looked  inside,"  said  Moonlight.  "As  my 
father  says,  it  is  a  white  man's  'medicine.'  It  is  a 
talking  'medicine,'  and  tells  of  the  white  man's 
God." 

"My  son  is  brave.  The  heart  of  Ironjacket  is 
strong;  and  yet  he  would  not  unwrap  this  thing. 
Our  wise  men  have  said  that  an  evil  spirit  has  his 
home  in  it.  Wait!" 

Ironjacket  arose  and  entered  the  lodge.  Soon  he 
returned  with  a  short  tunic  or  hunting-shirt,  heavily 
bedecked  with  fringes  and  feathers.  He  put  the  gar 
ment  into  the  hands  of  Moonlight.  The  weight 
amazed  him;  on  closely  examining  it  the  mystery 
was  laid  bare.  The  body  of  the  tunic  was  made  up 

60 


STORY   OF    THE    STEEL    SHIRT 

of  a  shirt  of  finely  linked  chain  mail.  The  steel  links 
were  brown  with  stain  and  rust,  but  had  been  kept 
smooth  with  tallow.  Divested  of  feathers  and  buck 
skin  fringes,  which  were  an  Indian  addition,  this 
steel  shirt — sleeveless  it  was  —  would  have  reached 
from  a  tall  man's  throat  to  a  point  midway  between 
hip  and  knee.  Moonlight  hefted  the  thing  in  his 
hand;  his  examination  over,  he  bent  an  inquiring 
glance  on  the  Kiowa. 

" Listen!"  said  Ironjacket,  in  response  to  the 
glance.  "It  is  that" — pointing  to  the  steel  tunic — 
"  which  makes  the  name  of  Ironjacket.  My  son  shall 
hear.  No,  I  wouldn't  tell  it  to  a  white  man;  but  my 
son  is  a  Kiowa.  This  is  what  was  told  by  my  father, 
who  heard  it  from  his  father.  There  have  been  many 
Ironjackets — so  many."  He  held  up  seven  fingers. 
"One  and  all  they  have  owned  this  iron  shirt,  the 
father  giving  it  to  the  son;  and  with  it  the  ' med 
icine'  "  —pointing  to  the  skin-wrapped  packet — "of  the 
dead  white  face.  I  am  a  Kiowa;  my  father  was  a 
Kiowa.  But  my  father's  father,  and  all  who  went 
before,  were  Missouris.  The  Missouris  were  bold 
men,  but  they  are  gone  now.  Some  were  killed  by 
the  Pawnees;  some  by  the  Sioux.  Then  the  small 
pox  came,  and  only  a  few  were  left.  That  was  many 
summers  ago  when  my  father's  father  was  chief  of 
the  Missouris.  Now  when  they  were  too  weak  to 
fight  with  the  Pawnees  and  the  Sioux,  they  came  to 
their  cousins  the  Kiowas,  and  there  were  no  more 
Missouris.  They  were  all  Kiowas  from  that  time." 

Ironjacket  paused  to  uplift  himself  with  a  puff 
from  the  redstone  pipe. 

"My  son,  listen!  As  many  summers  ago  as  there 
61 


THE    THROWBACK 

are  leaves  on  a  large  tree,  the  Missouris  lived  by  the 
big  bend  where  the  Kaw  has  its  mouth.  One  day 
their  hunters  were  far  out  on  the  plains  after  buffaloes. 
Their  camp  was  by  the  Pawnee  Rock.  While  the 
Missouris  were  by  the  Rock,  many  white  men  came 
from  the  West;  with  them  were  their  squaws  and 
pappooses.  The  white  men  were  fools.  They  thought 
the  Missouris  were  Osages,  to  whom  they  bore  a 
message.  The  captain  of  the  white  men  smoked 
with  the  chief  of  the  Missouris.  When  he  had  smoked 
he  said:  'We  come  from  beyond  the  mountains  to 
the  west.  By  the  mouth  of  the  Kaw,  on  the  big 
bend  of  the  Missouri,  we  are  going  to  live.  See,  we 
bring  our  squaws,  and  our  pappooses,  and  our  spotted 
buffaloes;  for  we  shall  build  a  town  and  stay.  But 
first  we  must  kill  all  the  Missouris.  That  is  why 
we  smoke  with  the  Osages,  who  are  at  war  with 
the  Missouris.  You  and  I  will  help  one  another. 
W^e  will  go  together  and  kill  all  the  Missouris.  Then 
we  who  are  white  men  shall  build  the  town;  and  you 
and  your  Osages,  who  are  our  friends,  shall  trade 
with  us.'  This" — here  Ironjacket  snorted  his  con 
tempt  for  that  fatuous  white  man — "the  paleface 
captain  spoke  to  the  chief  of  the  Missouris,  for  the 
paleface  captain  was  a  fool." 

"As  my  father  says,"  observed  Moonlight,  "that 
white  man  was  a  fool  and  deserved  to  die." 

"This  was  on  him  when  he  spoke,"  said  Ironjacket, 
picking  up  the  chain-mail  shirt.  "Also,  he  died, 
as  my  son  has  said." 

There  was  a  further  moment  given  up  to  smoke 
and  silence. 

"It  was  this  way,"  resumed  Ironjacket.  "The 
62 


STORY   OF    THE    STEEL    SHIRT 

chief  of  the  Missouris  said  he  was  glad  to  hear  the  talk 
of  the  white  captain,  for  it  gave  him  a  good  heart. 
He  would  send  for  his  young  men;  and  after  that 
he  would  show  the  white  men  where  to  find  the 
Missouris.  So  he  sent  his  runners  for  his  people; 
and  he  and  the  white  captain  waited  and  smoked. 
Seven  sleeps  they  smoked;  and  on  the  seventh  day 
the  fighting  men  of  the  Missouris  had  come." 

"And  the  chief  of  the  Missouris  then  told  the  fool 
white  captain  the  truth?" 

"He  told  him  the  truth,"  replied  Ironjacket  com 
placently.  "Lance  and  axe  and  arrow  never  lie,  and 
the  chief  spoke  with  arrow  and  lance  and  axe." 

"Did  he  kill  all?" 

"All! — men,  pappooses,  squaws;  he  killed  all. 
But  at  first  one  man,  who  was  dressed  like  a  squaw, 
got  away  on  a  horse.  There  were  other  horses,  but 
the  Missouris  were  afraid  to  ride  them;  for  this  was 
many  summers  ago.  The  Missouris  would  fight  with 
a  horse,  for  they  were  brave;  but  at  that  time  their 
hearts  had  not  grown  big  enough  to  ride  on  a  horse's 
back.  The  Missouris  chased  the  squaw-man;  but 
they  chased  him  a-foot.  The  chief  told  his  young 
men  they  must  kill  him,  or  he  would  bring  back  more 
white  men.  So  they  followed  him  by  his  horse's 
tracks  across  Sand  Creek,  and  Crooked  Creek,  and 
the  Medicine  Lodge,  and  the  Cimarron;  and  they 
knew  they  would  get  him,  for  they  saw  by  the  two 
camps  he  made  that  he  had  nothing  to  eat.  Then 
they  found  where  the  wolves  killed  his  horse.  And 
then  a  fire  shone  on  a  hill.  That  was  by  this  river, 
the  Canadian;  and  the  hill  was  this  hill  by  which  we 
are  now  camped." 

63 


THE    THROWBACK 

Ironjacket  pointed  to  the  huge  hill  that  furnished 
the  bluff  termination  of  the  point  of  rocks,  which 
ran  down  towards  the  river  on  the  eastern  edge  of 
the  cottonwood  grove.  Its  outlines  stood  out  tall 
and  black  in  the  moonlight. 

"And  the  squaw-man/'  asked  Moonlight;  "did  the 
Missouris  kill  him?" 

"They  found  him  on  that  hill  by  his  fire;  and  they 
killed  him.  He  did  not  fight,  for  he  was  weak.  Be 
sides,  he  was  a  squaw-man,  and  wore  the  dress  of  a 
squaw.  When  the  Missouris  crept  upon  him  he  did 
not  hear.  He  was  talking  with  what  is  wrapped  up 
in  that  buckskin — talking  with  his  ' medicine.'  The 
Missouris  waited  to  see  what  his  ' medicine'  would 
do;  but  it  did  nothing.  Then  they  waited  no  longer, 
and  smote  him  with  their  stone  clubs.  No,  they  did 
not  scalp  him;  for  in  his  fear,  being  a  squaw-man, 
he  had  shaved  away  his  hair,  and  there  was  no  scalp- 
lock.  But  they  brought  his  'medicine'  to  the  chief 
of  the  Missouris — who  was  many  times  back  my 
father.  The  medicine  men  of  the  Missouris  packed 
it  with  cedar  leaves  and '  medicine '  grass,  and  wrapped 
it  tight  in  buckskin.  They  said  it  could  talk,  and 
must  be  kept  close,  or  it  would  get  away  and  tell  the 
white  men  of  that  big  killing  by  the  Pawnee  Rock. 
So  the  chief  of  the  Missouris  took  it — that,  and  the 
fool  white  captain's  steel  shirt.  And  so,  from  that 
day  father  gave  these  things  to  son,  father  gave  them 
to  son,  father  gave  them  to  son,  until  they  are  here 
in  our  hands  by  this  fire." 

Moonlight  was  thinking  on  that  long-dead  monk, 
whose  Bible  lay  in  the  buckskin  wrapper.  He  did 
not  distrust  the  tale  of  Ironjacket;  for  he  knew  how, 

64 


STORY   OF    THE    STEEL    SHIRT 

word  for  word,  the  Indians  preserve  the  accurate 
truth  for  centuries. 

While  Moonlight  ruminated  of  that  ancient  slaugh 
ter  by  Pawnee  Rock,  with  its  little  epilogue  of  blood 
on  the  near-by  hill,  Ironjacket  was  running  another 
thought  to  earth. 

"My  son  has  looked  at  the  squaw-man's  'med 
icine'?" 

"Yes." 

"Did  it  talk  to  him?" 

"Yes." 

"Is  it  a  good  ' medicine'?" 

"It  is  good  for  white  men.  It  would  not  talk  to 
a  Kiowa." 

Ironjacket  considered  deeply. 

"See  now,"  he  said  at  last,  "because  my  son  is 
a  Kiowa,  and  because  he  brought  back  my  honor 
when  it  was  held  by  Gray  Horse,  I  will  do  a  new 
thing.  I  will  give  my  son  the  squaw-man's  'medi 
cine'  to  be  his.  But  the  steel  shirt  I  will  keep,  since 
it  is  my  name,  and  Ironjacket  must  not  give  away 
his  name  and  the  name  of  his  fathers." 

"And  to-morrow  my  father  will  go  to  the  hill  where 
the  squaw-man  died?" 

"There  is  a  mark  on  the  great  soft  rock  at  the  top 
of  the  hill — a  mark  such  as  white  men  make.  I 
shall  show  my  son  the  squaw-man's  mark.  Now  let 
us  sleep,  for  there  will  be  much  time  on  the  morrow, 
since  Talk-a-heap " — that  was  Ironjacket's  name  for 
the  voluble  Jeff  Home — "cannot  bring  the  big  horse 
before  dark.  The  next  day  I  go  back  to  my  people 
on  the  Rabbit  Ear." 


65 


CHAPTER   VI 

THE  TREASURE  OF  DON  LOPEZ 

IRONJACKET  turned  into  his  lodge,  and  slept  as  be 
came  a  warrior  and  an  untroubled  man.  Moonlight 
sat  by  the  fire,  looking  straight  before  him  into  the 
coals,  as  though  their  glowing  bosoms  held  some 
worth-while  secret  that  his  gaze  might  in  the  end 
unlock.  Not  a  sound  arose  to  vex  the  night,  noth 
ing  save  the  lipping  mutter  of  the  river  fretting  with 
its  banks.  The  camp  was  death-still;  the  lodge, 
for  any  suggestion  of  sound  that  came  from  it,  might 
have  been  empty  of  all  life.  An  Indian  is  savage, 
but  not  vulgar;  he  never  snores,  and  his  commend 
able  slumbers  are  as  the  deep  sleep  of  a  tree. 

He  was  a  study  in  the  curious — our  young  gentle 
man  by  the  fire.  " Captain  Moonlight!'7— " Old  Tom 
Moonlight!" — those  were  but  names  of  respect,  mere 
titles  of  a  regional  nobility.  The  taste  of  the  Pan 
handle  had  conferred  them  on  him,  in  admiration 
of  his  stark  courage  and  a  fortitude  without  a  flaw. 
They  had  a  sober  sound,  those  names,  and  a  weight 
that  belonged  with  years.  And  yet  they  were  so 
much  a  contradiction,  that  he  who  wore  them  was 
hardly  better  than  a  boy. 

In  those  lands  of  unsafety  where  no  law  exists, 
and  one's  hand  must  keep  one's  head,  the  features 
pick  up  a  kind  of  facial  caution  of  their  own.  Espe 
cially  are  the  eyes  and  mouth  instructed  in  an  iron 

66 


TREASURE  OF  DON  LOPEZ 

impassivity  that  cloaks  emotion,  and  makes  a  mask 
behind  which  the  man  loves  or  hates,  or  saves  or 
slays,  unbetrayed  as  to  the  sentiment  that  underlies. 
It  is  the  caste-mark  of  the  wilderness.  The  desert 
dweller  who  would  be  equal  to  his  bleak  estate  must 
rise  above  and  beyond  the  changing  touch  of  joy  or 
sorrow,  hope  or  fear.  He  may  be  fire  within;  he 
must  be  ice  without.  This  comes  not  so  much  from 
pride  as  from  an  instinct  of  defense;  albeit,  like  much 
that  finds  root  in  prudence,  it  oft  turns  to  vanity  in 
its  fruit. 

Our  young  friend  by  the  fire  was  quite  the  native 
flower  of  his  surroundings.  No  cactus  of  unyielding 
thorn  could  have  been  more  stubbornly  natural  to 
that  hard  environment.  The  desert  never  concili 
ates,  never  compromises;  it  asks  no  quarter,  gives 
none.  And  such  would  have  been  the  picture  of 
our  young  fire-gazing  friend,  had  one  been  there  to 
paint  it. 

In  favor  of  truth,  however,  there  should  be  thrown 
in  some  measure  of  qualification.  Our  young  friend 
was  one  of  those  sphinx-like  indurated  natures  merely 
while  folk  were  looking  on.  Let  a  stranger  encounter 
him;  at  once  his  manner  was  replete  of  no  concession, 
non-surrender;  the  best  that  stranger  might  win  from 
him  was  a  truce.  His  face  would  offer  but  the  poor 
choice  of  two  expressions.  These  belonged  with  the 
gray  eyes.  They  were  like  a  pair  of  sentries — those 
eyes.  They  challenged.  And  there  came  nothing 
more  warmly  friendly  than  that  challenge.  He  was 
either  one's  enemy,  or  he  turned  his  back.  Com 
monly  it  was  the  latter;  for  he  seemed  hedged  of 
an  arctic  indifference  that,  courting  nothing  and 

67 


THE    THROWBACK 

caring  for  naught,  was  fine  only  in  being  as  bendless 
as  an  oak.  Byron,  in  his  affected  hour,  would  have 
written  a  poem  on  him. 

You  are  to  understand  that  our  young  friend  was 
these  several  granite  things  while  he  felt  the  gaze  of 
folk  upon  him.  Now,  as  he  sat  alone,  his  guard  of 
face  relaxed.  Those  eyes,  so  ready  to  command  or 
menace,  became  notably  soft.  As  they  brooded 
upon  the  dying  embers,  what  lights  and  shadows 
ebbed  or  flowed  in  the  gray  depths  were  as  gentle 
processions  of  sentiment. 

To  the  reader  of  faces  those  lights  and  shadows 
would  have  told  of  a  mood,  self-accusatory  and  sor 
rowful,  and  spoken  of  memories  freighted  of  regrets. 
Conscience  is  remembrance  plus  deduction,  and, 
with  a  mind  busy  over  the  past,  and  indulging  in 
inferences  far  from  self-flattering,  our  young  friend 
was  shrinking  under  the  lash  of  conscience.  Also, 
he  seemed  a  bit  surprised  that  this  should  be  so; 
from  which  one  is  to  argue  that  these  visitations  were 
new. 

And  yet  their  sources  were  not  far  to  seek.  His 
trouble  might  have  been  diagnosed  as  one  with  that 
of  Kipling's  gorilla.  He  had  too  much  ego  in  his 
cosmos.  Only  he  did  not  know;  since  Kipling  was 
not  to  write  till  later.  Too  much  pride,  too  much 
sentiment — these  were  his  defects.  Likewise  he  suf 
fered  from  a  lack  of  that  common,  workaday  wit  of 
give-and-take,  which  will  believe  in  half  a  loaf  rather 
than  believe  in  none. 

Our  young  friend  began  to  think  aloud — a  bad 
habit,  significant  of  a  soul  feeding  upon  itself. 

"I  begin  to  believe,"  said  he,  giving  the  fire  a  little 


TREASURE  OF  DON  LOPEZ 

vicious  shove  with  his  foot  to  bring  the  brands  to 
gether — "  I  begin  to  believe  that  while  a  man  is  born 
sane,  he  wanders  mentally  as  he  grows  old.  My 
method  of  life — of  which  I  was  a  trifle  fond — ceases 
all  at  once  to  please.  What  has  come  over  me? 
What  sudden  wisdom  have  I  gained?" 

Our  young  friend,  being  an  egotist,  would  never 
have  guessed.  To  one  older,  and  not  so  personally 
concerned,  that  irritating  soul-turmoil  wherein  he 
found  himself  would  have  been  easily  explained.  A 
very  radical,  and  yet  very  usual,  element  had  been 
thrust  into  the  equation  of  his  nature.  Like  some 
bright  bird  glancing  through  the  twilight  aisles  of  a 
wood,  there  had  come  the  beautiful  vision  of  a  girl. 
He  had  looked  at  Robert;  but  he  saw  Ethel.  To  his 
half-fed  fancy  she  was  as  the  sublimation  of  soft 
loveliness. 

Still,  had  one  so  told  him  he  would  have  denied  it. 
He  would  have  remembered — with  a  scowl — only 
Robert.  For  Ethel  had  left  her  sweet  impression, 
not  upon  his  memory  but  upon  his  heart,  and  our 
troubled  one — to  his  soul's  scandal — held  but  few 
conferences  with  his  heart.  Now  that  neglected 
organ  had  resolved  to  be  heard;  it  was  that  heart- 
voice,  so  strange  and  so  unrecognized,  speaking 
what  he  did  not  understand,  which  had  set  him  to 
self-distrust,  and  to  questioning  a  past  the  round  full 
virtues  whereof  he  never  before  distrusted. 

This  was  as  heaven  meant  it  should  be.  There 
come  proverbs  to  tell  of  love's  blindness.  It  is  false 
talk;  no  man  sees  himself  until  his  eyes  have  been 
opened  by  love.  And  so  with  our  dissatisfied  one. 
Ethel  had  come;  and  the  conviction  of  her  tender- 

69 


THE    THROWBACK 

ness  and  pure  truth  fell  all  across  him  like  a  light. 
By  it  the  ungrace  of  his  own  life  stood  revealed.  He 
reviewed  himself;  and  the  portrait  did  not  please 
him. 

"I  have  based  myself/'  he  said,  in  a  tone  wherein 
contempt  and  regret  were  mingled,  "I  have  based 
myself  on  myself,  like  an  eagle  on  a  crag;  and,  like 
the  eagle,  I  look  about  to  find  mere  loneliness  and 
desolation." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"Are  you  proud  of  your  thews?  A  cheap  boast, 
truly!  Every  buffalo,  every  bear  is  stronger!  The 
antelope  is  fleeter;  the  hawk  has  a  truer  eye!  And 
your  courage?"  This,  with  a  sneer:  " Courage?  It 
is  as  common  as  buffalo  grass!  So  few  are  without 
it  that  in  all  my  life  I've  met  but  three  cowards. 
One,  I  saw  to-day."  At  the  thought  of  Robert  he 
glowered.  "I  should  have  wrung  round  his  neck, 
had  it  not  been  for  disgracing  these  fingers!" 

His  self-criticism  took  another  course. 

"Are  these  better" — holding  out  his  hands — "be 
cause  there  is  blood  upon  them?  What  a  poor  brag 
to  say  that  one  has  taken  life!  One  may  even  slay, 
and  not  defeat!  Sun  Boy?  I  held  his  knife-hand 
with  my  left,  and  drove  my  blade  through  his  throat. 
I  looked  into  his  eyes;  they  neither  wavered  nor 
failed.  They  glared  back  into  mine;  the  man  died 
unconquered.  I  myself  could  have  done  no  more. 
Fortitude?  Ironjacket,  asleep  in  his  lodge,  might 
over-match  me!  Pierced  through  and  through  with 
what  to  him  was  more  than  death,  he  took  his  wound 
as  the  wolf  takes  its  wound  and  crept  aside,  asking  no 
sympathy.  For  what  have  I  lived?" 

70 


TREASURE  OF  DON  LOPEZ 

There  came  no  answer  to  the  last.  He  gazed  at  the 
fire  a  moment,  and  with  a  toss  of  the  hand  exclaimed: 

"Possibly,  my  life  is  not  my  fault!  The  disaster 
may  be  congenital,  and  I — as  my  discerning  father 
declared — a  simple  Recurrence — a  Repetition — a  Re 
crudescence — in  brief,  a  Throwback."  He  concluded 
with  a  gesture  of  disgust,  as  one  who  weakly  confesses 
too  much:  "Come;  I'm  not  so  important  as  I  would 
make  it  appear!  I  too  much  dwell  upon  myself!" 

Which  last  was  the  truest  word  he  spoke  that  night. 

Moonlight  shook  himself  like  a  swimming  dog.  It 
was  as  though  he  would  dismiss  the  thoughts  that 
weighed  upon  his  spirits  as  the  dog  dismisses  the 
water  from  its  coat.  He  picked  up  the  buckskin 
packet,  and  began  to  unfasten  the  deer-sinew  liga 
tures.  Unfolding  it,  he  took  out  a  Bible.  The  black 
covers  were  cracked  with  time,  but  still  defended 
successfully  the  body  of  the  book.  The  print  was 
Latin;  the  title  page  showed  it  to  have  come  from 
the  celebrated  presses  of  Lucio  in  Florence,  and  the 
date  of  that  printing  was  1693.  They  did  good  work 
then;  for  the  paper  was  as  fresh,  and  the  type  as 
clear,  as  on  the  day  it  went  first  to  the  shelves. 

Moonlight  did  not  wander  into  the  body  of  the 
volume;  it  was  the  fly-leaves,  and  what  had  been 
written  thereon,  that  interested  him.  Already  he 
had  read  it  sundry  times  since  the  death  of  that 
Comanche  horse- thief;  but  now  he  went  back  to  it 
as  earnestly  as  though  it  were  new. 

He  threw  a  resin-soaked  knot  on  the  embers  to 
give  him  light.  There  were  three  pages  closely  writ 
ten  in  Spanish.  The  text  was  small,  the  ink  had  run 
a  little  and  grown  brown;  none  the  less  it  could  be 

71 


THE    THROWBACK 

readily  picked  out.    This  is  a  free  translation  of  what 
he  read: 

"  To  whomsoever  shall  find  these,  my  words,  greeting: 

"In  the  year  of  our  Lord,  Seventeen  hundred  and  Sixteen, 
being  now  the  month  of  June,  I,  Jose,  a  brother  of  the  Society  of 
Jesus,  sometime  a  student  at  Lisbon,  say  these  things;  trusting 
in  the  fullness  of  time  thus  to  make  known  the  fate  of  Don  Lo 
pez  d'  Salazar,  and  the  expedition  under  him.  We  left  Santa  F6 
with  fifteen  hundred  souls — men,  women  and  little  children. 
Our  purpose  was  to  settle  on  the  Great  River,  to  the  end  that  we 
claim  the  region  for  Spain,  and  hold  in  check  the  French,  who 
were  pushing  north  from  Louisiana. 

''The  ground  marked  for  our  occupation  was  held  by  certain 
warlike  savages  called  the  Missouris.  Our  orders  were  to  wage 
instantly  against  these  pagans  a  war  of  extermination,  as  being 
for  our  best  safety  and  the  glory  of  Christ. 

"The  better  to  do  this,  we  designed  to  make  friends  and  allies 
of  certain  other  savages,  living  to  the  south  and  west  of  the 
Missouris,  and  engaged  in  bloody  feud  with  them.  These  were 
called  Osages,  and  our  scouts,  sent  forth  from  Santa  F6  the  sea 
son  before,  had  reported  on  them  as  friendly  to  the  Spanish. 
That  report  was  either  a  lie,  or  the  two  warring  tribes  of  Osage 
and  Missouri  had  made  meanwhile  a  peace.  This  the  sequel  will 
show. 

"Two  weeks  before  I  write,  if  my  count  of  the  days  be  true, 
we  encountered  a  party  of  the  Osages.  Don  Lopez,  yielding 
to  the  custom  of  these  savages,  smoked  with  their  head  man, 
and  laid  bare  his  mission. 

"The  head  man  of  the  Osages  listened  with  respect,  and  appar 
ent  agreement.  He  assured  Don  Lopez  of  his  friendship,  and 
said  that  he  would  send  for  his  warriors.  They  would  come 
presently;  and  then,  with  Don  Lopez  and  the  soldiers,  he  and 
his  Osages  would  fall  upon  the  Missouris,  whom — deceiving  us 
— he  professed  to  hate  rancorously. 

"  Don  Lopez  waited;  and  at  the  end  of  seven  days  a  force  of 
two  thousand  warriors  had  gathered — a  force  five  times  the 
fighting  strength  of  the  Spaniards.  Besides  they  attacked  us 
without  notice,  taking  Don  Lopez  by  surprise,  arid  slew  all  save 
myself  who  write  these  words. 

"  I  had  come  as  the  secretary  of  Don  Lopez.  This  was  so  that 
I  might  watch  his  actions,  and  report  on  them  to  my  superiors. 
Don  Lopez  was  suspected  as  a  heretic  in  Spain,  and  had  fallen 
under  cloud  of  doubt  with  the  Holy  Inquisition.  _  He  himself 
must  have  had  some  hint;  for  he  turned  his  fortune  into  precious 
stones,  rubies  mostly,  by  sacrificing  it  to  the  Jews,  and  then 
privily  quitted  Spain  for  the  Americas. 

"The  Holy  fathers,  upon  discovering  his  going,  named  me 
72 


TREASURE  OF  DON  LOPEZ 

to  follow  Don  Lopez.  As  a  stratagem  I  became  his  secretary; 
and  next,  much  against  my  pleasure,  I  was  compelled  in  these 
last  days  to  go  East  with  him  across  the  desert.  For  it  was 
thought  that  in  the  settlement  projected,  he  would  be  found  tol 
erating  if  not  teaching  doctrines  inimical  to  Holy  Mother  Church. 

"My  service  was  not  difficult,  albeit  I  endured  much  hard 
ship.  Besides  being  secretary  to  Don  Lopez,  I  was  Chaplain  of 
the  expedition;  but,  such  was  the  godlessness  under  Don  Lopez, 
the  duties  of  that  post  were  but  nominal.  What  befell  us  of 
spear  and  knife  and  hatchet,  I  verily  take  to  be  the  judgment  of 
an  offended  heaven  upon  our  unrighteousness.  But  I  must  pro 
ceed:  I  have  had  nothing  save  a  few  bitter  roots  to  eat  for  al 
most  four  days,  and  possess  not  too  much  strength  for  the  task 
of  setting  this  to  ink  and  paper. 

"When  the  treacherous  Osages  fell  upon  us,  which  they  did 
with  horrid  yells  and  shouts,  I  was  standing  by  my  saddled 
horse,  having  but  just  dismounted.  Pausing  only  to  catch  up 
the  little  metal  box,  which  held  the  whole  fortune  of  Don  Lopez 
— and  which  had  been  entrusted  to  my  hands  as  those  safest  and 
most  honest — I  threw  myself  upon  my  horse.  I  spurred  south; 
for  I  could  have  aided  nothing  in  the  fight,  which  was  after  all 
but  a  slaughter,  since  I  carried  no  arms  other  than  my  pens  and 
inkhorn  in  my  girdle,  and  moreover  was  cumbered  of  my  monkish 
gown. 

"As  I  say,  taking  the  little  treasure  box  of  Don  Lopez  to  save 
it  out  of  the  hands  of  those  heathen  Osages,  I  spurred  south  at 
top  speed;  and  so  busy  were  the  savages  dealing  out  death  that 
none  perceived,  and  I  got  clear  away.  I  expected  to  be  followed 
and  slain,  for  there  were  horses  fleeter  than  mine  in  our  herds; 
but  by  the  mercy  of  the  Mother  none  saw  me,  and  I  made  good 
my  getting  away.  I  kept  at  first  to  the  south,  thinking  that 
after  I  was  surely  safe  I  would  hold  westward  in  hopes  of  finding 
Santa  Fe*. 

"This  hope  has  now  been  dashed.  During  my  flight  I  had 
nothing  to  eat,  and  could  find  nothing,  riding  as  I've  said  without 
weapons.  The  lack  of  food  rendered  me  exceeding  weak,  and  on 
the  third  day,  being  starved  and  the  sun  pouring  down  very  hot, 
I  fainted  and  fell  from  the  saddle.  When  I  recovered,  which  I 
did  shortly,  my  horse  had  wandered  away,  and  was  lost.  Nor 
have  I  seen  it  since. 

"At  the  time  of  this  catastrophe  I  was  on  the  south  bank  of 
a  considerable  stream,  which  I  had  crossed  several  hours  before 
and  whose  course  I  was  then  following  toward  the  west.  I  was 
near  the  foot  of  a  high  hill,  tree-crowned;  the  base  being  thickly 
brushed  and  shady.  To  this  hill  I  crawled,  when  I  had  gained 
the  strength,  and  laying  myself  down  in  the  shade,  gradually 
got  back  still  greater  strength.  There  was  a  spring  at  the  foot 
of  the  hill,  the  cool  waters  coming  forth  out  of  a  little  cave.  I 
found  the  waters  very  refreshing,  much  superior  in  truth  to  the 
waters  of  the  river,  the  latter  being  turbid  with  alkalies. 

73 


THE    THROWBACK 

"  Being  strengthened  by  the  pure  water,  I  bethought  me  as  to 
what  I  should  do.  In  my  then  situation  I  would  soon  die  of 
starving,  and,  with  my  horse  gone,  I  could  push  on  no  farther. 
As  night  came  down,  I  resolved  to  crawl  to  the  top  of  the  hill 
and,  having  flint  and  steel,  make  a  fire  of  wood.  I  hoped  thus 
to  attract  to  my  succor  some  roving  band  of  savages.  They 
might  slay  me;  against  this  they  might  be  prompted  of  heaven 
to  save  me.  As  it  stood,  I  was  doomed  to  die  of  no  food,  and  the 
chance  seemed  worth  taking.  For  three  nights  and  days  I  have 
kept  up  my  fire  on  the  hill;  so  far  nothing  has  come  of  it. 

"The  treasure  box  of  Don  Lopez  I  have  secreted  in  the  little 
cave  out  of  which  bubbles  the  spring — the  waters  whereof  have 
preserved  my  strength  most  wondrously.  The  casket  is  buried  in 
the  very  bottom  of  the  spring  and  covered  with  a  thin  slate  from 
the  hill.  Neither  the  casket  nor  the  treasure  can  take  harm 
from  the  water,  since  the  one  is  gold,  enclosed  in  sheet  steel,  and 
the  other  made  up  of  precious  stones — many  rubies,  some 
emeralds,  and  a  few  diamonds. 

"  Should  I  die — as  I  well  expect  at  this  time — whoever  shall  find 
this,  my  Bible,  is  to  have  the  treasure.  For  Don  Lopez  is  surely 
dead — I  saw  him  fall — and  was  moreover  a  bachelor  of  no  heirs. 
Besides,  he  was  a  heretic;  I  had  collected  ample  proof  of  it,  when 
the  traitor  Osages  smote  upon  us.  I  say  again,  whosoever  shall 
find  the  treasure  is  to  have  it  and  hold  it;  only  I  charge  that  he 
give  to  the  Society  of  Jesus  one-tenth. 

"The  cave  of  the  spring  is  on  the  eastern  slope  of  the  hill  at 
the  extreme  base.  I  have  carved  as  deeply  as  I  might,  with  so 
poor  a  tool  as  the  steel  tongue  of  my  buckle,  a  cross  in  the  rock 
that  crests  the  hill,  and  by  that  the  hill  may  be  surely  known. 
The  substance  of  the  rock  is  soft;  but  I  have  carved  deeply,  and 
it  should  take  centuries  of  weather  to  wear  away  the  cross. 

"  Dig  in  the  bottom  of  the  spring  for  the  treasure  box.  I  shall 
keep  up  my  hilltop  fire  while  I  have  strength  to  feed  it;  but  my 
strength  is  becoming  less  and  less  from  want  of  nourishment, 
and  my  hope  is  wasting  with  my  strength.  For  all  that,  with 
only  half  my  promised  days  run  out — being  now  in  my  thirty- 
fifth  year— I  still  say  that  the  Will  of  God  is  my  will. 

"  JOSEF." 

Moonlight  closed  the  time-worn  volume,  and  fell 
into  a  muse.  "Heretofore,"  he  ruminated,  "I  have 
lived  as  the  wolves  live,  with  no  more  thought  of 
the  morrow  than  of  yesterday.  I  was  content  to 
pull  down  each  day's  beef  each  day.  And  since  I 
lived  happily,  why  should  I  now  think  on  gold?  Is 
it  this  monk's  tale?"  He  cast  more  wood  on  the 

74 


TREASURE  OF  DON  LOPEZ 

coals.  "Why  delude  myself?  I  but  grow  weary  of 
life  as  it  is.  To  be  first  among  savages  is  not  enough. 
And  yet  where  else  should  I  be  first  or  even  second? 
Where  a  man,  with  the  weapons  of  a  man,  may  assert 
his  manhood  in  the  face  of  nature,  I  can  prove  my 
self  a  leader.  All  that  would  fail  and  fade  in  regions 
more  civilized.  In  the  country  of  folk  quiet  and 
law-guided — for  example  the  country  of  those  whom 
I  saw  to-day — to  what  art  or  what  craft  might  I 
turn  hand  or  head?  No;  it  is  settled.  Long  ago  I 
gave  in  my  choice,  and  now  I  am  captive  to  that 
choice.  I  made  the  desert  my  bed,  and  in  the  desert 
I  must  lie.  What  then?  I  am  still  dissatisfied.  Ar 
gument  will  not  curb  nor  necessity  quiet  the  uneasi 
ness  that  has  seized  me.  More;  I  am  prophet  enough 
to  know  that  it  will  continue  to  creep  upon  me  like 
ivy  upon  a  wall." 

He  glanced  wistfully  at  the  book  in  his  fingers,  and 
then  opened  it  again  at  those  Spanish-written  fly 
leaves. 

"From  this  treasure  of  the  dead  and  gone  Don 
Lopez,"  he  went  on,  softly,  as  though  debating  a 
point  with  himself,  "I  might — being  so  fortunate  as 
to  find  it  —  fashion  freedom  for  myself.  I  had 
thought  I  owned  the  wilderness;  I  now  see  that  the 
wilderness  owns  me.  This  treasure  of  which  the 
dead  monk  tells  would  mean  my  liberation.  But 
who  is  to  discover  it  now?  It  would  be  too  much  to 
suppose  that  it  lies  there  ready  to  one's  hand,  after 
a  lapse  of  more  than  a  century  and  a  half.  The 
spring  may  have  dried  up.  Or  some  traveler,  dig 
ging  in  the  spring  for  deeper  water,  may  have  hit 
upon  it."  Then  decisively:  "None  the  less  I  shall 

75 


THE    THROWBACK 

have  a  look— hoping  no  hopes.  Yes,  I  shall  look; 
and  so  ease  my  soul's  fret  for  the  feel  and  the  sight 
of  those  rubies  "  He  glanced  across  at  the  black 
outlines  of  the  hill,  pointed  to  by  Ironjacket  as  the 
scene  of  the  Jesuit's  taking  off. 

""It  is,"  he  observed,  following  a  long  pause,  "a 
strange  coincidence  that  I  should  find  my  old  Kiowa, 
as  I  bring  him  the  monk's  book,  camped  within 
arrow-flight  of  the  very  place." 

Moonlight  wrapped  himself  in  the  gay  blanket 
which  the  politeness  of  Ironjacket  had  left  him,  and 
pulling  his  saddle  toward  him  for  a  pillow,  was  pres 
ently  sleeping  as  soundly  as  were  the  others.  If 
dreams  came  they  were  pleasant  dreams  of  gold  and 
pretty  faces.  Also  so  deep  were  his  slumbers  that 
the  friendly  morning  sun,  when  it  shone  in  his  face 
to  wake  him,  found  no  traces  of  them. 

An  Indian  is  never  in  a  hurry,  unless  he  is  after  a 
foe  or  a  foe  is  after  him.  The  day  had  worn  itself 
into  the  west  before  Ironjacket  with  a  grunt,  tolerant 
of  paleface  curiosity,  signified  his  readiness  to  con 
voy  Moonlight  to  the  dead  monk's  hill.  Ironjacket 
was  in  full  panoply  of  Kiowa  war,  with  face  painted 
in  as  many  colors  as  Joseph's  scriptural  coat,  when 
he  mounted  his  best  pony  for  the  journey.  The  hill 
was  distant  about  a  furlong;  but  no  Indian  walks 
when  he  may  ride.  There  is  a  dignity  indigenous  to 
a  pony's  back;  and  Ironjacket  never  forgot  dignity. 

Moonlight  also  mounted  and  rode  by  the  Kiowa' s 
side. 

"Has  my  son  again  talked  with  the  dead  squaw- 
man's  '  medicine'?" 

"While  my  father  slept,  we  talked  together.  It 
76 


TREASURE  OF  DON  LOPEZ 

said  the  squaw-man,  and  those  others  who  died  by 
the  Pawnee  Rock,  never  knew  it  was  the  Missouris 
that  rubbed  them  out.  They  died  thinking  it  was 
the  Osages." 

"Good!"  quoth  Ironjacket.  "Until  the  sun  and 
moon  and  stars  run  together  like  water,  and  what 
was  dark  is  made  light,  they  will  fight  the  Osages  in 
the  land  of  spirits  for  what  my  fathers  did — my 
fathers,  who  were  Missouris." 

Moonlight  made  no  effort  to  correct  the  theology 
of  Ironjacket.  He  knew  that  an  Indian's  theology  is 
immutable.  Hard  as  glass,  it  will  turn  the  edge  of 
any  paleface  argument,  however  keen. 

"Is  it  not  strange,"  said  Moonlight  at  last,  as  the 
ponies  paced  side  by  side,  "that  my  father,  at  the 
time  I  bring  him  the  squaw-man's  'medicine,'  should 
be  seated  in  the  shadow  of  this  hill?  There  are 
many  hills;  and  yet  my  father  is  by  this  hill." 

"Your  father  waited  here  for  his  lost  ' medicine," 
replied  Ironjacket  composedly.  "The  squaw-man's 
'medicine'  was  also  lost;  and  your  father  came, 
knowing  the  squaw-man's  spirit  would  be  camped 
here,  waiting  for  the  return  of  its  'medicine.'  The 
two  would  return  together;  and  so  it  was  good  that 
your  father  should  wait  close  by  the  spirit  of  the 
dead  squaw-man.  My  son  can  now  see" — here  Iron- 
jacket  complacently  sleeked  with  his  hand  the  be 
loved  beaver-skin  hung  jealously  about  his  neck — 
"that  this  was  wise.  The  squaw-man's  'medicine' 
is  very  strong;  it  brought  back  the  'medicine'  of 
Ironjacket,  which  the  mean  handling  of  a  Comanche 
liar  had  made  weak  and  sick." 

On  the  high  point  of  the  hill  overlooking  the  river 
77 


THE    THROWBACK 

there  jutted  skyward  a  huge  rounded  rock.  It  was 
buried  in  oak  bushes  and  hedged  in  by  a  thick-sown 
guard  of  cedars.  Ironjacket  led  the  way  to  the  rock, 
and  pointed  to  the  face  that  looked  toward  the  east. 

"The  squaw-man's  mark,"  said  Ironjacket,  gravely. 
"Does  my  son  see?" 

There  on  the  eastern  face,  moss-grown  but  evi 
dent,  was  carved  a  great  cross.  Moonlight  stooped, 
and  cleared  away  the  moss  with  his  knife.  There 
could  be  no  doubt;  it  was  indeed  the  dead  monk's 
cross.  His  pulses  quickened,  for  he  remembered  those 
hidden  rubies  of  Don  Lopez. 


78 


Moonlight  was  lost  in  a  contemplation  of  the  (  Vo.v.v. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  RED   BULL  OF  THE   CROSS-8 

FIVE  minutes  went  by,  during  which  Moonlight  was 
lost  in  a  contemplation  of  the  cross,  and  what  it 
should  promise.  He  was  interrupted  by  an  excla 
mation  from  the  Kiowa. 

"Talk-a-heap!"  ejaculated  Iron  jacket. 

Moonlight  looked  up.  Far  away,  where  the 
sparsely  planted  cottonwoods  offered  a  view  from 
the  hill,  could  be  seen  Jeff  Home.  With  him  rode 
that  Red  River  BUI,  who  was  supposed  to  own  an 
amiable  weakness  for  fandangoes.  Their  ponies  were 
being  urged  to  that  long,  loping  canter  called  in  the 
southwest — where  there  are  no  roads — a  "road  gait." 

In  addition  to  the  ones  they  bestrode,  Jeff  and  his 
companion  were  bringing  two  riderless  ponies,  one 
being  led  by  Jeff,  who  was  having  trouble  in  restrain 
ing  its  propensities  for  speed.  The  led  pony  was  a 
dark  bay,  taller  and  heavier  than  the  others.  In  the 
bright  thin  air,  even  at  a  distance  of  three  miles,  it 
broke  upon  the  sight  of  those  on  the  hill  as  sharply 
clear  as  an  etching.  The  fourth  pony — packed  to 
the  ears,  it  was — Red  River  Bill  was  driving  loose 
before  him. 

"  Talk-a-heap,"  commented  Ironjacket,  with  ap 
proval,  "  rides  fast.  He  brings  my  son's  big  horse 

79 


THE    THROWBACK 

And  now,"  he  concluded,  following  a  pause,  "  Iron- 
jacket  will  go  to  the  Rabbit  Ear." 

"  I  thought  my  father  spoke  of  to-morrow  for  that 
journey." 

Ironjacket  pointed  to  the  thither  side  of  the  Ca 
nadian,  where  Southwind  and  Firelight  could  be  seen 
driving  northward  their  ponies,  the  latter  loaded  with 
lodge  poles,  robes,  kettles  and  generally  the  house 
hold  equipment  of  Ironjacket.  Wet  and  dripping, 
they  had  just  emerged  from  the  ford. 

Ironjacket  became  explanatory. 

"Squaws,"  said  he,  in  tones  of  condescension,  "are 
ever  mad  to  be  with  squaws.  Southwind  and  the 
Firelight  could  not  wait  for  another  sun.  They  were 
hungry  for  woman-talk." 

With  this  sage  setting  forth  of  reasons  for  an  im 
mediate  adjournment  of  his  household  to  the  Rabbit 
Ear,  as  a  place  promising  social  advantages  beyond 
those  provided  by  the  loneliness  of  the  Canadian, 
Ironjacket  led  the  way  down  the  hillside.  Once  on 
the  flat  below,  without  further  farewells,  he  pushed 
his  pony  into  the  river,  and  went  squat tering  and 
plunging  across,  water  sometimes  to  the  fetlocks, 
sometimes  shoulder  deep.  On  the  far  shore  he 
wheeled  and  waved  his  hand  in  a  last  aboriginal 
good-by.  That  courtesy  complete,  he  dug  his  moc- 
casined  heels  into  the  pony's  flanks,  and  was  pres 
ently  established  in  the  van  of  the  family  procession, 
where,  when  his  domestic  outfit  is  on  the  march,  a 
Kiowa  warrior,  for  arguments  of  defense  and  pride, 
invariably  takes  his  post. 

Being  now  alone,  Moonlight  rounded  the  base  of 
the  monk's  hill  for  a  look  at  its  eastern  face.  He  was 

80 


RED  BULL   OF   THE   CROSS-8 

pardonably  curious  concerning  that  treasure-conceal 
ing  spring.  More  often  than  once  in  traveling  up  and 
down  the  trail,  he  had  passed  and  repassed  the  hill; 
but  he  had  never  bestowed  upon  it  anything  beyond 
a  careless  glance.  From  the  monk's  fly-leaf  memo 
randa,  he  had  taken  the  impression  that  the  hill 
toward  the  east  fell  off  with  reasonable  abruptness, 
offering  a  brush-sown,  rocky  steep.  Hidden  away  at 
the  base  should  somewhere  be  the  cave,  with  its  out- 
gushing  spring,  in  the  bottom  sands  of  which  those 
Don  Lopez  rubies,  wrapped  in  their  gold  steel-pro 
tected  box,  lay  buried. 

Our  young  explorer  was  not  one  who  on  slight  oc 
casion  hopes  extravagantly.  For  all  that,  the  monk's 
story  had  taken  hold  on  his  imagination.  The  fact 
found  suggestion  in  that  chill  of  disappointment 
which  now  overswept  him.  On  doubling  the  hill's 
foot  he  found,  instead  of  what  he  had  pictured,  the 
eastern  face  of  the  hill  to  be  just  no  face  at  all.  Rather 
it  was  a  huge  shouldering  bulk  of  sand,  that,  resting 
against  the  hill,  reached  far  out  on  the  bottom  lands 
beyond.  Instead  of  oak  brush  and  pines,  springing 
from  a  rocky  face,  there,  smoothly  rounded,  rose  this 
baby  mountain  of  sand.  It  had  been  builded  by 
the  sand  storms  during  the  tireless  years.  The  face 
of  the  hill,  as  the  ruby-hiding  Jesuit  had  found  it, 
was  wholly  obliterated. 

It  called  for  no  civil  engineer  to  deduce  what  had 
happened  in  those  many  sand-drifting  years,  and 
Moonlight  solved  the  riddle  at  a  glance.  He  turned 
his  pony's  nose,  and  rode  out  upon  the  grassy  flat  to 
gain  a  better  survey.  As  nearly  as  the  eye  might 
measure,  the  cave  where  those  rubies  of  Don  Lopez 

81 


THE    THROWBACK 

had  been  cached  was  buried  beneath  a  sand-drift  of. 
full  one  hundred  feet.  To  talk  of  digging  was  to  talk 
of  men  and  horses  and  scrapers  by  the  score.  He 
gave  way  to  an  exclamation  of  angry  impatience. 
He  would  have  been  loath  to  confess  how  much  a  pas 
sion  to  possess  that  Don  Lopez  treasure  had  crept 
upon  him. 

Riding  in  toward  the  giant  sand-drift,  he  slowly 
skirted  its  fringe  where  the  sand  joined  the  grass  in 
the  bottom-lands.  In  this  perambulation  he  kept 
his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  ground.  At  last  he  found 
where  a  thin  rivulet  came  seeping  forth. 

"That  is  from  my  dead  monk's  spring,"  he  thought. 
Then  he  lifted  his  gaze  to  the  huge  sand-shoulder, 
covering  acres  with  its  foundations:  "That  treasure- 
box  might  as  well  be  at  the  bottom  of  the  Pacific! 
It's  plain,"  ran  his  thoughts,  "that  if  I  ever  redeem 
myself  from  this  thraldom  of  the  wilderness,  which 
has  begun  so  much  to  irk  me,  my  friend,  Don  Lopez, 
with  his  rubies,  is  not  fated  to  pay  the  ransom." 

As  he  gazed,  there  arose  in  his  mind  a  whimsical, 
half -superstitious  notion  that  the  shades  of  the  Jesuit 
and  his  master,  Don  Lopez,  had  invoked  those  sand- 
piling  storms,  and  so  covered  safe  against  his  treasure- 
seeking  that  engaging  casket. 

While  Moonlight  paused,  eyes  upon  the  little  stream, 
mind  busy  over  vain  schemes  of  wildcat  engineering, 
the  voluble  Jeff,  with  Red  River  Bill  and  the  four 
ponies,  swept  patteringly  up.  The  two  had  espied 
their  leader  as  they  came  up  the  trail,  and  struck  across 
to  join  him.  The  inquisitive  Jeff  was  prompt  in  not 
ing  the  thoughtful  attitude  of  his  young  chief. 

"What  is  it,  Cap'n?"  he  queried.  Jeff's  native 
82 


RED   BULL   OF   THE    CROSS-8 

jauntiness  of  spirit  by  the  way  had  been  in  no  wise 
worn  down  by  his  long  ride  to  the  Palo  Duro.  "  What 
ever  be  you-all  puzzlin'  over — if  it  ain't  no  secret?" 

"What  am  I  puzzling  over?  I'm  puzzling  over 
yonder  sand-drift."  Then,  teasingly,  willing  to  mul 
tiply  the  mystery  to  the  curious  Jeff,  he  added: 
"  Under  it  lie  my  fortune  and  my  future." 

At  this  bit  of  news  Jeff  cocked  a  sage  eye,  as 
though,  under  the  sand-heaped  circumstances,  he  re 
garded  Moonlight's  fortune  and  future  as  among 
things  lost. 

Dismissing  one  subject  for  another,  he  finally 
nodded  toward  the  impatient  bay  where  it  stood 
mouthing  its  Spanish  bit  as  if  waiting  for  notice. 

"  Here's  President,"  said  he,  with  the  up  and  down 
manner  of  one  making  a  report.  "  Likewise  here's 
Red  River  Bill."  Then,  coming  last  to  the  pack- 
pony  who,  taking  advantage  of  the  halt,  was  saga 
ciously  cropping  the  grass:  "Also,  allowin'  that 
you-all  would  feel  like  puttin'  on  dog  some  at  that 
Ruggles  baile,  Red  River  an'  me  decides  to  fetch 
your  Sunday  clothes.  Thar  they  be  in  that  pack. 
'If  the  Cap'n  will  shake  a  laig  with  them  Cross-8 
Mexicans,'  says  I  to  Red  River,  'the  same  bein'  a 
play  which  I  in  no  wise  endorses,  then  he  shore  ought 
to  shake  that  laig  in  style.'  So,  as  I  says,  we  nacher- 
ally  packs  over  them  gala  habiliments  of  yourn;  an' 
thar  they  be." 

While  Jeff  was  pleasing  himself  with  this  recount 
of  what  he  had  done,  President,  nostril  hollyhocked, 
ears  pointed,  neck  arched,  eyes  like  two  moons, 
pressed  up  and  rubbed  his  black  soft  muzzle  against 
his  master's  knee.  Moonlight  in  response  gently 

83 


THE    THROWBACK 

stroked  the  swelling  neck ;  whereat  President  breathed 
loudly,  as  horses  will  when  under  strong  emotions  that 
they  are  unable  to  express. 

"  Howdy,  Red  River !"  observed  Moonlight. 

Red  River  Bill,  a  youth  of  twenty,  was  a  fair  speci 
men  of  the  craft  of  cows.  His  bronzed  face,  guiltless 
of  beard,  seemed  the  home  of  silence  and  self-reliance; 
—badges  of  solitude  and  wild,  wide-spreading  wastes. 
At  the  " Howdy!"  his  tanned  face  lighted  up. 

"Ridin'  easy,  Cap'n,"  he  responded. 

Having  said  so  much,  Red  River  sunk  again  into 
silence,  leaving  Jeff  to  do  the  talking,  a  burden  which 
that  personage  was  always  willing  to  take  up. 

"Do  we  go  over  to  the  Cross-8  this  evenin'?"  asked 
Jeff,  who  began  to  feel  like  putting  a  period  to  the 
day's  ride;  "or  do  we  camp  yere,  an'  go  over  to- 
morry?" 

"We  will  round  that  point  of  rocks,"  returned 
Moonlight,  pointing  to  the  north  shoulder  of  the  dead 
monk's  hill,  "and  camp  where  Ironjacket's  lodge  was 
pitched.  I  reckon  we'll  find  his  fire  still  burning,  for 
it  isn't  an  hour  since  he  left." 

"Pulled  his  freight,  has  he?"  queried  Jeff. 

"Ironjacket  has  found  his  lost i medicine,'  and  now 
he's  on  his  way  to  the  Rabbit  Ear." 

"Found  his  ' medicine,'  eh?  Thar'll  be  roast-dog 
doin's  among  them  Wolf  Robe  Kiowas  when  he 
reaches  'em";  and  Jeff  gave  way  to  a  low,  envious 
whistle  of  admiration. 

The  ranch-house  of  the  Cross-8,  Captain  Ruggles 
owner,  was  of  Mexican  architecture  and  construc 
tion.  It  was  a  wide-spreading,  one-story,  window- 

84 


RED   BULL   OF   THE    CROSS-8 

less,  mud-built  edifice.  There  had  been  a  prudent 
thought  for  its  defense;  and  two  corners,  diagonally 
opposite  one  another,  bulged  into  rude,  circular  lit 
tle  towers.  Riflemen  perched  on  the  roofs  of  these 
could  control  by  their  fire  the  four  sides  of  the  build 
ing. 

The  roof  of  the  structure,  towers  and  all,  was  mud 
piled  on  beams  and  rafters  made  from  unbarked 
trees,  and  to  save  it  from  the  rains  a  rank  coat  of 
grass  had  been  taught  to  grow  there.  The  adobe 
walls  of  the  house  had  been  carried  four  feet  above 
the  roof,  and  the  garrison,  in  case  of  attack,  could 
take  to  that  grass-sown  platform.  Once  there,  they 
might  from  behind  those  four-foot  battlements  fight 
as  from  a  fort.  Twenty  cool  hands  should  have  held 
at  bay  an  entire  tribe  of  savages. 

The  one  opening  to  the  big  mud  ranch-house— 
known  among  the  Mexicans  of  the  region  for  its  size 
and  strength  as  the  "Casa  Grande" — was  a  wide 
double  door,  the  thick  folds  of  which  when  closed 
were  locked  by  a  mighty  cross-bar.  For  a  furlong 
about  the  house  the  cottonwoods  had  been  cut  away, 
so  as  to  afford  no  shelter  to  an  approaching  foe. 
The  Comanche  or  the  Kiowa  who  attacked  the  Cross- 
8  would  have  to  attack  in  the  open;  and  the  mere 
thought  of  riding  forth  into  the  open  against  rifle- 
crowned  walls  will  turn  an  Indian's  soul  sick.  He 
has  no  stomach  for  such  turgid  military  operations; 
but  prefers  to  find  his  prey  in  the  open,  and  over 
power  him  by  at  least  ten  for  one. 

Not  because  he  was  loved,  but  because  his  mud- 
made  ranch-house  was  deemed  impregnable,  Captain 
Ruggles  had  lived  for  years  on  the  Canadian,  hostile 

85 


THE    THROWBACK 

Indians  coming  and  going  all  about  him,  without  be 
ing  once  assailed.  Occasionally  a  Mexican  herder 
was  killed  and  scalped,  while  abroad  among  the  cattle ; 
but  those  were  catastrophes  too  small  to  engage  seri 
ously  the  large  attention  of  Captain  Ruggles. 

"I  am,"  said  he,  in  a  burst  of  candid  self-descrip 
tion,  "always  patient  about  the  troubles  of  other 
folks." 

Captain  Ruggles  was  not  popular  among  Pan 
handle  Americans.  He  had  taken  to  wife  in  his  day 
a  Mexican  woman;  and  in  Texas  that  is  worse  than 
murder  or  holding  up  a  stage.  The  lady  had  been 
rich  in  flocks  and  herds,  which  was  doubtless  the 
reason  of  Captain  Ruggles'  love.  Certainly,  by  pop 
ular  tradition,  there  had  been  little  in  her  looks  to 
bring  him  to  his  knees.  She  had  been  hideously 
ugly — besides  being  the  color  of  a  saddle. 

"Old  Ruggles  must  have  picked  her  out  by  candle 
light,"  was  the  comment  of  one  Scotty,  given  at  the 
time. 

Scotty,  who  sometimes  carried  the  mail  between 
Tascosa  and  Dodge,  spoke  as  one  having  metropol 
itan  opportunities  to  perfect  his  taste  in  feminine 
beauty;  wherefore,  his  decision  that  "Old  Ruggles" 
had  wedded  the  ugliest  woman  between  the  Rio 
Grande  and  the  Platte  had  been  widely  heard  and 
everywhere  accepted.  The  lady  had  been  dead  for 
eighteen  years;  a  fact,  however,  which  in  no  wise 
lifted  that  load  of  disrepute  from  Captain  Ruggles 
which,  in  the  beginning,  his  espousal  of  a  Mexican 
imposed  upon  him  in  the  minds  of  all  right  thinking 
folk. 

No  American  worked  for  Captain  Ruggles  or  had 
86 


RED  BULL  OF   THE   CROSS-8 

place  in  his  service.  For  the  reason  of  that  Mexi 
can  Mrs.  Ruggles,  an  American  of  pure  strain  would 
have  held  himself  disgraced  had  he  found  his  name 
on  the  Cross-8  pay  rolls.  Those  about  Captain  Rug 
gles,  who  looked  up  to  him  as  master  were  Mexicans 
of  the  peon  caste;  and  this  perhaps  better  pleased 
the  fancy  of  the  old  renegade,  since  they  were  the 
more  readily  inspired  with  fear,  and  therefore  more 
easily  managed. 

Captain  Ruggles  was  wont,  on  offense  given  or 
cause  furnished,  to  rush  among  his  Mexicans  writh 
hoarse  berserk  bellowings,  striking  right  and  left, 
knocking  the  criminals  about  like  nine-pins.  Thus 
it  befell  that  he  was  vastly  respected  by  his  retainers, 
who — for  those  bellowings  and  headlong  charges — 
called  him  the  Toro  Colorow  or  Red  Bull,  a  title  of 
which  he  was  proud.  In  age  he  had  passed  fifty 
years;  in  figure  he  was  round  and  unwieldy;  his  hair 
was  red,  shot  with  gray;  and  his  complexion — which 
stubbornly  resisted  every  tanning  influence  of  sun 
and  weather — had  turned  a  boiled,  choleric  hue.  It 
was  this  last  which  suggested  to  the  Mexican  imagi 
nation  the  adjective  of  "colorow." 

While  the  Red  Bull  was  a  thunderbolt  of  aggres 
sive  war  where  Mexicans  were  concerned,  his  manner 
became  singularly  suave  and  pacific  when  set  to  deal 
with  Americans.  The  inspiration  of  this  soft  for 
bearance  was  obvious  when  one  understands  that 
the  last  thing  for  which  the  Red  Bull  really  hungered 
was  battle.  He  was  too  wary,  too  fond  of  safety  and 
a  profit.  There  lurk  no  dividends  in  duels,  and  the 
prudent  Red  Bull  nursed  as  first  among  many  pet 
aphorisms,  the  following: 

87 


THE    THROWBACK 

"A  gun-fight  is  one  of  those  things  you  see  best 
from  a  distance. " 

There  was  a  redeeming  element  in  the  ugly  whole 
of  the  Cross-8  establishment,  being  in  truth  the  Red 
Bull's  daughter,  the  Dona  Inez.  It  is  not  to  be  sup 
posed  that  she  resembled  her  mother,  for  her  dark 
beauty  shone  out  against  the  harshness  of  her  envi 
ronment  like  a  cactus  flower  against  the  homely 
grays  and  browns  and  dust-colors  of  its  native  plains. 
Also,  the  Dona  Inez  was  of  an  imperious  vein,  and 
her  high-tempered  father  came  and  went  on  the  breath 
of  her  commands,  or  said  "Yes"  or  "No" — only  he 
said  it  in  Spanish — at  the  lifting  or  the  lowering  of 
her  little  imperious  finger.  Even  in  his  hour  of 
profoundest  raging,  the  Red  Bull  would  stifle  his 
bellowings  if  Dona  Inez  but  raised  repressive  palm. 
And  now  when  she  was  to  be  betrothed,  and  on  a  soon 
day  wedded  to  Don  Anton  Baca,  every  one  about  the 
Cross-8  felt  depressed  at  the  prospect.  For  her  father 
held  by  her  as  by  the  light  of  day,  and  the  peons  on 
their  side  argued  that,  once  she  were  gone,  the  Red 
Bull  would  bellow  and  charge  with  fresh  fury  unre 
strained. 

And  yet,  the  Mexicans  were  fond  of  their  Red  Bull 
master,  for  all  he  knocked  them  about.  A  Mexican 
does  not  like  to  be  mauled;  but  he  likes  regular  hours, 
and  work  well  ordered,  less.  The  Red  Bull  was  as 
shiftless,  and  as  much  the  soul  of  careless  disorder,  as 
any  Mexican  could  be;  he  cared  nothing  for  almanacs, 
nothing  for  clocks;  and  with  him  as  with  them,  for 
every  purpose  of  labor,  to-morrow  was  superior  to 
to-day.  This  easy  slackness  deeply  dovetailed  with 
the  wild,  idle,  half-baked  inclinations  of  his  adher- 

88 


RED  BULL   OF   THE    CROSS-8 

ents,  and  gave  him  a  place  in  their  esteem  from  which 
no  amount  of  assault  and  battery  could  shake  him. 
Altogether,  the  Cross-8  was  not  such  a  hive  of  dis 
content,  not  such  a  sink  of  unhappiness,  as  one  might 
have  supposed.  The  ruling  influence,  while  passion 
ate,  was  lazy,  generous,  careless;  which  was  precisely 
the  kind  of  influence  that  matches  the  slipshod  Mex 
ican  heart.  Besides,  was  there  not  that  lamp  of 
beauty,  the  Dona  Inez — as  radiant  as  a  star ! — as  high 
above  them  as  a  saint! — before  whom  they  might 
bow  down  and  worship? 

When  Cato's  eyes  fell  upon  the  Cross-8  ranch,  in  a 
first  thankfulness  he  unconsciously  stopped  the  sur 
rey.  Compared  with  the  rude  savagery  of  the  lodge 
of  the  alarming  Ironjacket,  here  was  a  fortress  of  civ 
ilization.  The  pause  was  only  momentary;  quickly 
recovering,  Cato  brought  his  team  forward  at  even  a 
better  speed  than  before. 

"I  sho'  shan't  mind  gettin'  into  d'  company  of 
folks  ag'in,"  he  said,  partly  to  himself  and  partly  to 
Professor  Doremus. 

There  was  little  in  the  sunbaked  prospect  to  enlist 
one  fresh  from  the  green  meadows  of  Somerset,  and 
yet  the  sight  of  the  Cross-8  ranch  brought  almost  as 
much  relief  to  Aunt  Tilda  as  to  Cato.  It  opened  a 
chance  to  shift  the  conversation,  and  came  tactfully 
to  the  relief  of  Robert,  who  under  the  words  of  Ethel, 
and  the  chilly  attitude  of  Professor  Doremus,  had 
been  made  to  feel  like  a  detected  coward,  and  was 
now  sitting,  tongue-tied  and  wordless  beneath  the 
smart. 

"What  an  idea,"  commented  Aunt  Tilda,  "to 
build  a  house  without  windows!  And  see" — point- 

89 


THE    THROWBACK 

ing  to  the  scattered,  weather-stained  stumps — "how 
they  have  cut  away  the  trees,  as  though  coolness  and 
shade  were  the  synonyms  of  pestilence!" 

"My  dear  Madam,"  observed  Professor  Doremus, 
who  was  not  wanting  in  certain  archaic  war  theories, 
born  of  much  reading  of  Homer,  "I  think  the  features 
of  which  you  complain  are  intended  to  be  defensive." 

From  the  parapet  of  the  house  hung  countless 
strings  of  red  peppers  curing  in  the  sun.  These 
blazed  out  against  the  sad  dun-colored  landscape  like 
a  fire  in  a  forest. 

"They  make  one  think  of  a  cataract  of  coral!"  ex 
claimed  Ethel,  to  whom  color  was  a  music  of  the  eye. 

Mounted  on  a  pony  much  too  small  for  his  weight, 
a  bulky  figure  came  riding  forth  to  meet  them.  It 
was  none  other  indeed  than  the  Red  Bull  himself;  he 
had  been  warned  of  their  coming  and  was  on  the 
lookout. 

This  honor  of  a  personal  going  forth  to  greet  them 
on  the  worthy  Red  Bull's  part  was  not  without  mak 
ing  a  grave  impression  on  the  local  Mexican  mind. 
It  at  once  established  the  new-comers  as  ricos,  and 
gave  Robert  and  Professor  Doremus  the  rank  of 
Dons;  for  it  could  be  no  slight  matter  that  set  the 
Red  Bull  in  the  saddle,  as  his  retainers  were  well 
aware.  He  welcomed  the  travelers  with  an  elaborate 
politeness,  the  growth  of  his  years  among  the  Mexi 
cans,  and  was  particularly  courteous  toward  Aunt 
Tilda  and  Ethel. 

As  the  party  approached  the  ranch-house,  the 
heavy  double  doors  swung  wide,  and  the  Red  Bull, 
with  an  effort  that  almost  resulted  in  apoplexy,  ex 
tricated  himself  from  his  stirrups  and  ushered  them 

90 


RED  BULL   OF   THE    CROSS-8 

in.  He  led  them  across  the  patio,  an  enclosed  open 
space  within  the  walls  of  the  house.  This  square — 
quite  an  eighth  of  an  acre — was  a  nodding  wilderness 
of  flowers,  with  a  spring  of  cool  water  bubbling  in  its 
midst.  From  the  patio  he  marshaled  them  into  the 
sola  or  reception  hall,  and  there  bade  them  be  seated. 

"The  Dona  Inez,"  he  said,  "will  be  here  in  a  mo 
ment." 

As  though  their  coming  were  a  signal,  a  Mexican 
girl  bustled  in  bearing  an  armful  of  cedar,  and  albeit 
the  day  was  warm  soon  had  a  blaze  crackling  in  the 
mud  fireplace.  As  she  went  about  her  fire-building, 
turning  now  and  then  a  shy  inquisitive  glance  upon 
the  visitors,  Aunt  Tilda's  attention  was  drawn  to  her. 
Brow,  nose,  cheeks,  chin — the  girl's  entire  face,  ex 
cept  certain  wide  uncanny  circles  about  the  eyes  and 
mouth,  was  stained  a  sanguinary  crimson.  It  was 
as  though  she  wore  a  hideous  blood-red  mask. 

"What  is  it?"  whispered  Aunt  Tilda,  in  tones  be 
tween  awe  and  horror.  "Is  she  suffering  from  some 
plague?" 

The  sophisticated  Red  Bull,  to  whom  the  question 
was  put,  could  hardly  repress  a  laugh,  while  the  girl 
discovering  that  she  had  become  the  subject  of  the 
conversation,  drew  her  reboza  or  shawl  over  her 
highly  painted  countenance,  and  scuttled  away  with 
the  timidity  of  a  rabbit. 

"No,  Madam,  I  assure  you!"  panted  the  Red  Bull, 
when  he  had  mastered  his  emotion.  "It  is  the  juice 
of  the  alegria  plant.  There  is  to  be  the  betrothal 
celebration  of  the  Dona  Inez  and  Don  Anton  Baca, 
and  poor  Bonita  stained  her  face  three  weeks  ago  in 
anticipation  of  it,  being  determined  to  look  as  white 

91 


THE    THROWBACK 

and  pretty  as  she  could.  She  is  quite  a  belle,  is 
Bonita,  and  the  face-painting  was  intended  to  assist 
her  complexion.  You'll  get  used  to  it,  Madam;  all 
Mexican  girls  bleach  their  faces  with  the  alegria." 

The  Red  Bull  might  have  given  reins  to  his  merri 
ment,  but  the  severe  dignity  of  Aunt  Tilda  daunted 
him.  Moreover  he  was — being  Mexicanized — doubly 
bound  to  courtesy  toward  strangers  in  his  own  house. 
The  Red  Bull  had  taken  his  manners  from  the  Mexi 
cans,  who  got  theirs  from  the  Spaniards,  who  got 
theirs  from  the  Moors,  who  got  theirs  from  the  Arabs; 
and  the  Arabs  are  the  congenital  Chesterfields  of  the 
world.  Wherefore,  the  Red  Bull  would  have  been  no 
one  to  laugh  at  the  horror  of  Aunt  Tilda,  even  if  her 
superior  air  had  not  held  him  in  check. 

As  the  Red  Bull  made  his  explanation,  there  arose 
a  thin  rustle  of  silk,  and  the  Dona  Inez  entered  the 
sola.  Going  first  to  Aunt  Tilda  and  then  to  Ethel, 
she  kissed  one  and  the  other  on  the  cheeks,  and  said 
in  a  queer,  lisping  English: 

"You  are  welcome." 


CHAPTER   VIII 

DON  ANTON  AND  THE  DOffA  INEZ 

THE  Dona  Inez  was  barbarically  beautiful.  Black 
straight  brows — black  deep  midnight  eyes — black  fog 
of  hair,  as  fine  as  finest  silk,  growing  low  and  thick 
on  the  forehead — skin,  not  white,  not  brown,  but 
wheat-hued,  with  a  rose-flush  blushing  in  the  round 
cheeks,  and  coloring  the  ripe  lips,  between  which 
gleamed  teeth  small,  even,  white  as  milk — such  might 
have  been  the  sketch  of  her  loveliness.  With  little 
or  nothing  of  the  Saxon  showing,  the  Dona  Inez  had 
sprung  altogether  from  her  mother's  people. 

The  glow  and  flash  of  her  beauty  quite  swept  into 
captivity  the  fancy  of  Ethel,  who  had  begun  to  be  a 
little  lonely,  feeling  socially  cast  away  and  in  need  of 
girlish  companionship.  The  Dona  Inez  gazed  at  Ethel 
with  bright,  quick  bird-like  glances,  which  Ethel  re 
paid  with  glances  quite  as  bright,  but  of  a  soberer 
glint.  It  was  clear  that  these  maidens  approved  of 
one  another. 

"You  are  welcome, "  repeated  the  Dona  Inez,  this 
time  with  her  eyes  on  Ethel.  "  My  father  told  me  you 
were  coming,  and  I  was  glad.  Now  when  I  see  you  I 
am  more  glad." 

"Is  the  place  to  which  we  are  going  far  from  here?" 

Ethel  already  meditated  an  endless  chain  of  calls 
on  the  Dona  Inez. 

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THE    THROWBACK 

"It  is  nothing!"  cried  the  Dona  Inez,  who  instinc 
tively  understood.  "Twenty  miles,  perhaps!  And 
what  is  that?  Two  hours  in  the  saddle — a  scamper!" 

"Then" — and  Ethel,  who  was  no  hermit  in  her 
heart,  breathed  with  relief — "then  we  may  see  each 
other  often?" 

"Every  day,"  responded  the  Dona  Inez.  The 
heiress  of  the  house  of  Ruggles  was  blandly  uncon 
ventional.  "Yes;  we  shall  pay  each  other  long  visits 
—you  and  I." 

The  Dona  Inez  became  hospitably  mindful  that  her 
new  friends  were  wayfarers,  fresh  from  a  wearisome 
trail.  Disdaining  a  chair,  she  sat  down  tailorwise, 
that  is  to  say,  cross-legged,  on  a  red  Navajo  blanket 
which  served  as  a  partial  carpet  for  the  clay  floor. 
She  looked  very  pretty,  so  Robert  and  Professor 
Doremus  thought,  as  thus  established  she  gave  her 
self  up  to  the  concoction  of  chocolate  in  an  ancient 
Moorish  silver  pot.  It  was  for  this  purpose  of  choco 
late  that  the  cedar- wood  fire  had  been  kindled.  Pres 
ently  the  chocolate  was  passed  about  in  fragile  china 
cups,  by  a  Mexican  girl,  who  was  not  Bonita  of  the 
painted  face. 

"Bonita  is  a  fool!"  explained  the  Dona  Inez,  who 
owned  to  notions  of  a  dress-reform  sort.  "Why 
should  she  daub  her  face  with  alegria?  That  will  do 
no  good;  she  should  put  flour  on  it." 

The  Dona  Inez  let  her  silken  reboza  slip  down  about 
her  shoulders.  The  garment  was  a  startling  combi 
nation  in  black  and  yellow.  Taken  with  the  arch  in 
nocence — friendly  at  once  and  daring — of  the  black 
eyes,  it  made  her  appear  like  a  little  ingenuous  tigress. 

Ethel,  who  was  a  born  milliner,  thought  she  had 

94 


DON    ANTON    AND   DONA   INEZ 

never  beheld  anything  more  bewilderingly  fetching. 
She  ran  the  reboza  over  with  a  copying  eye,  remem 
bering  meanwhile  that  proverb  concerning  Rome  and 
Romans. 

While  Ethel  and  the  Dona  Inez  were  thus  broad 
ening  the  foundations  of  their  young  acquaintance, 
Professor  Doremus,  Robert,  and  the  Red  Bull,  with 
Aunt  Tilda  lending  an  interested  ear,  had  plunged 
into  what  distances  and  difficulties  separated  the  trav 
elers  from  their  journey's  end. 

"You  must  not  think  of  to-morrow,"  observed  the 
hospitable  Red  Bull.  "There  was  a  storm  to  the 
west,  and  the  high  water  has  left  the  ford  in  no  shape 
for  wagons.  You  understand  about  the  quicksand 
fords  in  this  region,  Professor?  You  must  rest  easy 
then  for  at  least  three  days.  Don  Anton  Baca  should 
be  here  by  nightfall.  There  will  be  music  and  a 
baile;  and  my  herders  are  to  hold  a  kind  of  bronco- 
riding,  cattle-roping  tournament.  Don  Anton  offers 
a  saddle,  silver  embossed,  and  brought  especially  from 
Chihuahua,  as  a  prize.  So  you  see  your  stay  should 
pass  quickly." 

The  Red  Bull  was  the  beaming  jovial  host  in  every 
feature. 

"It's  the  truth;  the  ford  is  impassable.  Besides," 
— here  the  Red  Bull  winked  a  watery  eye  grega 
riously — "ford  or  no  ford,  I  should  have  hung  onto 
you.  Good  company  is  scarce  along  the  Canadian, 
and  as  keeper  of  the  trail  I  exact  not  less  than  a  three- 
days'  stay  from  all  who  travel  it.  What  do  you  say, 
Madam?"  he  concluded,  addressing  Aunt  Tilda. 

"I  say,"  returned  the  good  lady,  with  a  courtesy  to 
match  the  Red  Bull's,  "that  you  are  very  good  to 

95 


THE    THROWBACK 

make  us  so  welcome.    It  would  be  difficult  to  thank 
you  too  much — you  and  your  beautiful  daughter." 

"Welcome!"  retorted  the  Red  Bull  heartily,  his 
brickdust  face  a  shade  deeper  as  though  for  em 
phasis;  "why  then,  I  call  it  nothing  more  than  neigh 
borly!  We  are  to  live  within  twenty  miles  of  each 
other;  and  that  in  the  Panhandle  means  next  door." 

The  Red  Bull,  following  chocolate,  recommended 
Aunt  Tilda  and  Ethel,  with  the  Dona  Inez  to  bear 
them  company,  to  the  flowers  in  the  patio. 

"They  should  refresh  your  eyes,"  said  he,  "after 
the  dust-colored  scenery  through  which  you  have 
come." 

The  energetic  Red  Bull  was  for  showing  Robert 
and  the  Professor  through  the  sundry  belongings  of 
the  ranch.  For  exhibition  enterprises  of  this  char 
acter  he  had  all  the  heart  that  an  Eastern  farmer 
possesses  for  showing  the  visitor  his  cattle  and  horses 
and  hogs. 

Aunt  Tilda  preferred  to  accompany  the  Red  Bull 
and  the  others  on  their  stroll,  and  declined  the  patio 
and  the  flowers.  She  felt  a  call  for  practical  informa 
tion,  not  to  say  instruction,  in  this  life  of  cattle  upon 
which  they  were  about  to  commence,  and  said  as 
much. 

"We  are  what  you  call  tenderfeet,  Captain,"  she 
explained. 

"We'll  soon  harden  you,  Madam;  we'll  soon  have 
you  sophisticated.  The  cattle  trade  is  as  simple  as 
seven-up.  Besides,  the  Bar-Z  is  but  a  small  outfit, 
with  only  about  a  thousand  head,  as  shown  by  last 
spring's  branding,  and  that  will  make  your  work  the 
easier." 

96 


DON    ANTON    AND    DONA   INEZ 

The  Red  Bull  led  the  way  through  the  double  doors 
into  the  outward  world  beyond.  Taking  Robert  by 
the  arm,  he  carried  the  little  party  from  branding- 
pen  to  blacksmith-shop,  from  the  camp-house  where 
the  Mexican  riders  slept  to  the  corral  where  their 
ponies  were  confined,  laying  bare  every  ranch  mystery 
as  it  arose.  Robert  listened  with  interest;  embarked 
with  his  whole  fortune,  his  dangerous  ignorance  of  the 
cattle  business  had  begun  to  oppress  him,  and  he  was 
eager  to  go  to  school. 

Professor  Doremus,  with  Aunt  Tilda  upon  his  polite 
old  arm,  brought  up  the  rear.  As  they  progressed,  he 
expounded  learnedly,  and  Aunt  Tilda  was  quite  lost 
in  a  cloud  of  admiration. 

The  Professor  had  just  identified  the  cactus  as  "a 
polypetalous  plant  of  the  dicotyledonous  order,  be 
longing  to  the  Indian  fig  family,"  when  his  eloquence 
was  broken  in  upon  by  the  sharp  bark  of  a  six-shooter. 
Aunt  Tilda  gave  a  half-suppressed  scream.  There 
upon  the  Professor,  both  lover  and  warrior  by  nature, 
arched  his  crest  protectively. 

"What  was  it?"  queried  Aunt  Tilda  faintly,  yet 
feeling  somewhat  put  out  with  herself  because  of  that 
feminine  scream. 

The  affair  was  quickly  understood.  A  rattlesnake, 
planted  in  their  path,  had  protested  the  advance  of 
Robert  and  the  Red  Bull,  and  the  latter  had  met  the 
protest  with  his  six-shooter.  In  a  region  where  a 
Colt's  pistol  is  as  commonplace  as  a  handkerchief  and 
forms  an  every-day  element  of  a  gentleman's  attire, 
the  Red  Bull  had  for  the  moment  overlooked  Aunt 
Tilda's  untrained  nerves.  Her  quick  cry  brought  him 
to  a  realizing  sense  of  this. 

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THE    THROWBACK 

"Pardon  me,  Madam!"  he  began.  " Being  used  to 
the  Dona  Inez,  who  is  more  ready  with  a  pistol  than  a 
needle,  I  forgot  myself.  It  was  a  blunder.  Coming, 
as  you  do,  straight  from  civilization,  I  should  have  re 
membered  that  you  were  sure  to  be  a  bit  gun-shy." 

Aunt  Tilda  called  up  a  smile. 

"It  was  nothing!"  she  said.  "Indeed,  I'm  not 
sorry  it  happened,  since  I  must  get  inured  to  pistols 
and  rattlesnakes."  She  made  an  involuntary  clutch 
at  the  Professor. 

That  scientist  was  already  pleasantly  engaged  with 
the — to  him — remarkable  fact  that  the  Red  Bull's 
bullet  had  blown  off  the  rattlesnake's  head.  Giving 
himself  the  air  of  an  expert,  he  drew  Robert's  atten 
tion  to  this;  and  Robert — whose  cheek  at  the  sudden 
flash  of  the  pistol  had  become  as  white  as  Aunt  Tilda's 
— gulped,  and  pretended  admiration. 

"Really,  Captain!"  cried  Professor  Doremus,  sur 
veying  the  headless  reptile,  now  writhing  out  its  re 
luctant  life,  "really!  a  capital  shot!  I,  myself,  have 
some  art  of  powder  and  ball,  and  I  never  saw  better! 
You  sighted  for  the  creature's  head." 

"That's  the  curious  part  of  it,  Professor.  You 
should  give  all  the  credit  to  the  snake.  The  snake 
sighted  its  head  for  the  gun.  It's  one  of  the  queer 
kinks  in  the  make-up  of  a  rattlesnake.  Point  your 
pistol  at  him,  and  he  will  look  squarely  into  the  muz 
zle,  moving  his  head  this  way  or  that  until  he's  brought 
the  sights  to  a  line.  Whoever  shoots  at  a  rattlesnake 
inevitably  shoots  away  its  head." 

"  Most  wondrous ! "  exclaimed  the  Professor.  "And 
is  a  willingness  to  assist  in  its  own  destruction  com 
mon  to  all  ophidians?" 

98 


DON    ANTON    AND   DONA   INEZ 

The  Red  Bull  said  it  was,  and  the  Professor  made  a 
note. 

By  this  time  Robert  had  recovered  his  manhood, 
and  Aunt  Tilda  her  balance,  and  the  walk  was  re 
sumed,  Aunt  Tilda — skirts  caught  aside  gingerly — 
giving  the  dying  reptile  a  wide  berth. 

"They  are  not  very  dangerous,"  said  the  Professor, 
encouragingly.  "Being  thick,  clumsy  creatures,  they 
are  by  no  means  sure  of  their  blow.  Nor  are 
they  as  poisonous  as  printed,  just  as  Satan  is  not  so 
black  as  painted." 

Aunt  Tilda  expressed  relief  to  hear  this.  She  had 
cherished  the  theory  that  death  ever  waited  on  the 
fangs  of  the  rattlesnake.  She  would  now  feel  easier 
concerning  Ethel. 

"They  are  an  interesting  specimen  of  the  reptilia," 
observed  the  Professor,  falling  back  into  the  natural 
ist:  "Family,  crotalidse;  it  belongs  with  the  soleno- 
glyphic  serpents  or  pit-vipers." 

"Speaking  of  serpents,"  observed  Robert  carelessly, 
and  addressing  their  host,  "who  is  this  insolent  young 
fellow  who,  for  all  he's  no  older  than  myself,  goes  by 
the  name  of  Old  Tom  Moonlight?" 

The  Red  Bull's  shifty  eyes  took  on  an  expression  of 
uneasiness.  He  waited  a  moment,  as  though  to  pick 
his  words.  What  a  gentleman  says  may  be  repeated, 
and  a  region  of  six-shooters  is  never  a  region  of  slan 
der.  Your  neighbor  may  think  things  both  black 
and  hard  about  you;  but  he  keeps  them  the  safe  side 
of  his  teeth. 

"You  have  named  a  dangerous  character,"  said  the 
cautious  Red  Bull  at  last.  "  It  is  my  duty,  as  a  friend 
and  neighbor,  to  warn  you  against  him.  At  the  same 

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THE   THROWBACK 

time  I  must  ask  you  not  to  repeat  my  words.  This 
Old  Tom  Moonlight  is  reputed  to  be  as  savage  as  a 
wolf,  and  no  more  to  be  restrained.  He  would  not 
hesitate  to  ride  up  to  my  ranch  at  noon,  and  shoot  me 
down  in  the  midst  of  my  people." 

The  Professor's  eyes  sparkled;  he  did  not  regard 
hardihood  as  a  blemish.  The  Red  Bull  went  on : 

"To  be  frank,  I  personally  know  little  or  nothing 
about  him.  He  lived  with  the  Kiowas  for  many 
years.  Since  then  he  has  roved,  hither  and  yon,  be 
tween  the  Mohave  Desert  and  the  Panhandle.  He 
pretends  to  live  by  buffalo  hunting  and  by  cattle." 

"Pretends?"  repeated  Robert. 

"I  say  ' pretends/  because  it  is  a  shrewd  suspicion 
that  his  cattle  interests  are  mainly  confined  to  cattle 
stealing,  and  his  buffalo  hunting  only  a  cover  for 
stage  robbing.  Understand,"  concluded  the  Red  Bull 
earnestly — "understand  that  personally  I  know  of 
nothing  against  this  Old  Tom  Moonlight.  I  only  give 
you  what  I  have  heard." 

"That  prefix  'Old,'"  commented  the  Professor, 
"seems  out  of  place." 

"A  mere  pet  name  of  the  Panhandle,"  returned 
the  Red  Bull.  "In  a  rough  country,  a  desperado 
will  have  admirers.  The  nickname  'Old'  is  simply 
a  last  note  of  popular  admiration.  When  you  settle 
fairly  down  to  the  cattle  trade,  however,  you  must 
watch  this  Old  Tom  Moonlight." 

"And  why?"    This,  from  Robert. 

"He'll  steal  your  calves." 

"But  the  law!" 

"The  law  is  always  a  long  way  off;  you  will  have 
to  see  to  your  own  defense.  This  Moonlight  is  an 

100 


DON   ANTON   AND   DONA   INEZ 

inveterate  cattle  thief;  he  drove  off  full  two  hundred 
head  of  Don  Anton  Baca's  cattle — Don  Anton  who 
is  to  be  here  to-night." 

"I  have  some  skill  in  faces,"  observed  the  Pro 
fessor  doubtfully,  "and  I  should  not  have  called  this 
young  man  a  thief.  Violent,  yes,  and  perhaps  blood 
thirsty;  but  not  a  rascal." 

"You  have  seen  him  then?" 

Professor  Doremus  related  the  meeting  at  the  lodge 
of  Ironjacket,  passing  over  that  ocular  duel. 

"Professor  Doremus,"  observed  Robert,  addressing 
the  Red  Bull,  "was  quite  taken  with  this  fellow.  For 
myself,  I  knew  him  at  once  to  be  some  desperate  out 
cast." 

"And  you  were  right.  My  word  is  to  have  an  eye 
for  him." 

"I  shall,"  said  Robert.  "Tell  me  more  about 
him." 

"There's  nothing  to  add,  save  that  he  lives  to  the 
south  on  the  Palo  Duro.  He  has  two  followers,  Jeff 
Home  and  Red  River  Bill,  both  as  trustless  as  him 
self.  They  yield  themselves  to  his  will  like  dogs,  and 
will  kill  at  a  nod  from  him." 

"Has  he  been  long  in  this  region?" 

"No,"  returned  the  Red  Bull,  thoughtfully,  like 
one  reckoning  the  months;  "I  should  say  something 
over  a  year.  He  took  up  an  old  deserted  'dobe,  that 
was  once  a  trading-post  with  the  Comanches,  and  had 
been  abandoned.  It  is  a  place  well  chosen,  for  it 
commands  the  only  water  within  ten  miles." 

"Of  whom  did  he  buy?"  asked  Robert. 

"Buy?  He  bought  of  nobody.  The  place  was  de 
serted,  and  he  moved  in.  Legally,  he  is  no  more 

101 


THE    THROWBACK 

than  just  a  squatter.  Of  course  no  one  complains, 
as  the  state  of  Texas  owns  the  land." 

Robert  made  a  mental  note.  Why  would  it  not 
be  a  thrifty  bit  of  strategy  to  ride  back  to  Austin  and 
purchase  the  patent  to  this  ancient  trading-post  on 
the  Palo  Duro?  He  did  not  voice  the  query.  The; 
Red  Bull  might  take  the  hint,  and  act  on  it  for  him 
self.  Robert  was  enough  of  a  lawyer  to  understand 
how,  once  the  title  was  his  own,  he  might  dispossess 
his  enemy.  The  programme  appealed  to  him.  It 
would  mean  a  profit  in  dollars;  it  would  also  spell 
revenge.  The  latter  was  not  to  be  lost  sight  of;  for 
Robert  hated  Moonlight  as  only  a  coward  hates  the 
man  before  whom  he  has  quailed. 

"I  may  yet  teach  this  fellow  his  place,"  he  mut 
tered  under  his  breath.  "He  put  his  insult  upon  me. 
Ethel  despises  me,  even  the  old  musty  Doremus  de 
spises  me,  for  not  flying  at  his  throat.  I  shall  yet 
show  him,  and  show  them,  that,  even  though  I  have 
my  own  methods  of  retaliation,  I  am  not  to  be  af 
fronted  with  impunity." 

Robert  was  warming  his  little  soul,  and  fostering 
his  little  vanity,  with  these  reflections  when  the  Red 
Bull  called  attention  to  a  party  of  horsemen  approach 
ing  from  the  west. 

"Don  Anton  and  his  people!"  he  explained.  "Let 
us  return  to  the  ranch-house.  Don  Anton  would  feel 
ill-used  if  I  did  not  greet  him  in  the  very  doorway." 

The  Red  Bull  smiled  as  he  said  this,  as  though  at 
the  childish  humors  of  a  spoiled  boy,  to  whose  petu 
lant  exactions  he  yielded  in  a  spirit  of  patronizing 
good  nature.  He  and  Robert  turned  back,  picking  up 
Aunt  Tilda  and  the  Professor,  who  had  fallen  behind. 

102 


DON    ANTON    AND   DONA   INEZ 

While  the  others  made  the  rounds  of  the  ranch 
buildings,  Ethel  and  the  Dona  Inez  were  swapping 
confidences.  The  talk  was  bound  to  pivot  finally  on 
the  coming  Don  Anton;  and  it  did. 

"And  when  will  you  marry  him?"  asked  Ethel, 
for  whom,  as  for  other  girls,  bridals  possessed  a  burn 
ing  interest. 

The  Dona  Inez  spread  out  her  little  brown  hands 
in  a  deprecatory  way. 

"Not  for  a  long  time.     There  is  no  hurry." 

Ethel  was  taken  aback  at  the  other's  lack  of  ardor. 
By  every  rule  of  love,  as  studied  by  her  in  the  ro 
mances  of  the  day,  the  Dona  Inez  should  have  been 
in  a  tremor  of  dulcet  expectation. 

"But — but  you  love  him?"  she  said  tentatively. 

"I  love  him  well  enough  to  marry  him."  To  the 
horror  of  Ethel,  the  Dona  Inez  almost  yawned. 
"That  need  not  be  much,"  she  went  on.  "And  as 
for  marriage,  we  can  well  wait.  I  already  see  that 
we  shall  quarrel.  We  have  bad  tempers — both  of  us. 
Besides,  he  is  eager  to  be  jealous — is  Don  Anton." 

"Jealous?    But  you  give  him  no  cause?" 

"No,"  returned  the  Dona  Inez,  ruefully;  "as  you 
say,  I  give  him  no  cause,  for  there  are  no  men."  She 
waved  a  despairing  hand  above  the  flowers  in  the 
patio,  as  though  to  invite  attention  to  the  manless 
condition  of  the  Panhandle.  "But,"  she  concluded, 
"that  will  make  no  difference;  Don  Anton  will  just 
the  same  be  jealous.  He  will  imagine  the  man." 

"You  do  not  seem  to  care  for  his  jealousy." 

Ethel  could  not  solve  the  cool  riddle  of  her  be 
witching  friend.  Never  having  gone  deeper  into  love 
than  a  theory,  she  had  taken  it  for  granted  that, 

103 


THE    THROWBACK 

given  a  jealous  lover,  the  maiden  in  interest  was  at 
once  tearfully  miserable. 

The  Dona  Inez  drew  the  yellow  and  black  reboza 
about  her  oval  face,  and  looked  more  than  ever  like 
an  ingenuous  small  tigress. 

"Yes,  I  care,"  she  said;  "I  like  it."  Then,  after  a 
moment:  "Only  I  wish  there  was  a  man,  so  that  Don 
Anton  should  have  cause." 

"  But  they  might  quarrel,"  Ethel  protested.  "They 
might  even  fight  a  duel." 

"A  duel?  That  would  be  nice— why  not!  Fight?  It 
is  the  right  of  a  man  to  fight.  That  is  why  he's  a  man." 

The  Dona  Inez  threw  off  this  barbarous  philosophy 
as  might  one  who  states  an  axiom. 

"It  would  be  good,"  she  added,  "if  Don  Anton 
would  fight  about  me  once — twice — many  times.  I 
should  love  him  a  little  and  a  little  more  each  time. 
At  last  I  might  love  him  a  great  deal — who  knows? 
No,  he  should  not  go  without  reward." 

She  looked  up  archly  at  Ethel  through  her  long 
black  lashes. 

"Am  I  not  worth  fighting  for?"  she  asked. 

Ethel  broke  into  a  smile;  the  Dona  Inez  accepted 
the  smile  affirmatively. 

"Now  you,"  she  said,  giving  Ethel  a  queer,  kitten 
ish  pat  on  the  cheek,  that  would  have  been  affectedly 
silly  in  any  other — "now  you  are  worth  fighting  for; 
and  worth  dying  for.  That  Robert!  He  is  your 
lover — no?" 

Ethel  colored  to  the  eyebrows. 

"Assuredly  not,"  she  returned.  "We  are  not 
lovers  at  all.  We  were  reared  together;  he  is  my 
foster-brother." 

104 


DON    ANTON    AND   DONA   INEZ 

The  Dona  Inez  shook  her  little  head,  as  intimating 
tremendous  wisdom. 

"For  all  that  he  is  your  lover." 

Ethel  looked  denial. 

"Yes,  it  is  not  that  you  love  him;  I  do  not  say  so. 
But  his  love  is  yours.  I  know;  because  when  I  tried 
to  make  him  look  at  me  he  would  not.  I  could  not 
even  coax  his  eyes  from  you,  to  say  naught  of  his 
heart." 

Ethel  heard  the  chatter  of  the  Dona  Inez  lightly, 
yielding  it  not  a  second  thought.  She  supposed — 
and  was  right — it  to  be  the  other's  way  of  paying 
compliments.  And  yet  it  occurred  to  her  as  strange 
that,  while  to  name  Robert  as  her  lover  filled  her  with 
vague  resentful  anger,  the  word  brought  up  not  un 
pleasantly  the  image  of  that  gray-eyed  one  left  stand 
ing  beneath  the  cottonwood.  She  could  not  drive 
his  picture  from  her  thoughts;  the  failure  shamed  her 
until  a  blush  burned  in  her  cheek. 

"Ah!"  cried  the  observant  Dofia  Inez,  triumphing 
in  the  blush,  "your  face  is  red!  You  are  thinking  of 
your  lover  now!" 

Ethel  failed  to  interpose  denial,  as  she  did  when 
Robert  was  named.  Perhaps  she  forgot.  The  wicked 
Dona  Inez  seized  on  this  weak  silence  for  support. 

"You  do  not  say  'no,' "  she  cried,  as  though  clench 
ing  a  victory. 

There  arose  sounds  of  a  welcoming  confusion.  The 
next  moment,  followed  by  the  others,  the  Red  Bull 
came  into  the  patio  with  Don  Anton. 

Don  Anton  Baca  was  not  an  imposing  figure. 
Slight,  dark,  with  little  pointed  beard,  little  pointed 
mustaches,  little,  peevish,  pointed  arrogant  face, 

105 


THE    THROWBACK 

pointed  Chihuahua  hat  weighted  with  bullion  and  set 
round  with  little  tinkling  bells,  velvet  jacket  and  vel 
vet  trousers,  slashed  with  silk  and  sewn  thick  with 
little  silver  buttons,  little  boots  of  Cordova  leather, 
with  spurs  a-j ingle,  Don  Anton,  to  the  mind  of  Ethel, 
appeared  the  personification  of  all  that  was  little. 
She  glanced  at  the  Dona  Inez,  being  curious  as  to 
how  the  latter  would  greet  her  lover.  According  to 
those  guiding  romances,  it  was  a  time  for  flying  into 
his  arms. 

Nothing  of  the  sort  took  place;  either  the  Dona 
Inez  had  not  read  those  romances,  or  she  disregarded 
them.  She  and  the  little  peevish  Don  Anton  greeted 
one  another  briefly  in  monosyllabic  Spanish,  and  the 
warmth  of  the  meeting  was  furnished  wholly  by  the 
worthy  Red  Bull,  whose  effulgent  face — to  do  him 
justice — shone  like  the  sun. 

Ethel  could  not  avoid  the  conclusion  that  the  man 
ner  of  the  lovers,  careless  to  the  point  of  cold,  was  due 
to  the  presence  of  strangers.  Doubtless,  the  Dona 
Inez  would  sweetly  thaw,  and  Don  Anton's  hard, 
little  eyes — shiny  and  black  like  the  eyes  of  a  rat — 
soften  into  tenderness,  under  conditions  more  sweetly 
lonesome. 

However,  throughout  the  evening  there  arose  noth 
ing  to  justify  the  thought.  Ethel  never  once  inter 
cepted  word  or  look  or  sigh  that  told  of  love.  The 
Dona  Inez  was  the  model  of  a  superlative  indiffer 
ence  ;  and  the  only  thing  to  mark  the  pair  as  lovers  in 
the  least,  was  an  occasional  small  sparkle  of  anger  on 
Don  Anton's  part  at  the  aloofness  of  the  Dona  Inez. 

In  an  extreme  instance  he  even  waxed  thus  acrid. 
Says  he  in  Spanish: 

106 


DON    ANTON    AND   DONA   INEZ 

"One  might  think  us  already  married!" 

"I  shall  remember  that  we  are  not!"  says  she. 

The  Dona  Inez,  yearning  for  further  confidences, 
drew  Ethel  aside,  leaving  Don  Anton  to  such  society 
as  Aunt  Tilda,  Robert,  Professor  Doremus  and  the 
Red  Bull  afforded. 

"You  were  cruel!"  whispered  Ethel,  who  felt  some 
slender  sympathies  for  the  rat-eyed  Don  Anton. 

The  Dona  Inez  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  re 
arranged  the  tigerish  reboza. 

"You  do  not  understand!"  she  lisped,  the  specter 
of  a  twinkle  in  her  midnight  eyes.  "Men  are  like 
antelope;  the  way  to  hunt  them  is  to  sit  still." 


107 


CHAPTER   IX 

THE  UNINVITED  GUEST 

UNLESS  a  feast  or  a  dance  be  immediately  afoot,  a 
community  of  Mexicans  is  not  a  theater  of  turmoil 
and  mad  activities,  and  the  day  following  our  trav 
elers'  advent  at  the  Cross-8  was  dull  enough.  Both 
the  Red  Bull  and  the  Dona  Inez  were  so  far  well- 
bred  that  they  did  not  annoy  their  guests  by  too 
much  attention,  but  let  them  dispose  of  themselves 
as  best  suited  their  fancy.  The  Dona  Inez  came  ever 
and  anon  for  a  word  with  Ethel,  and  to  see  that  she 
was  not  dying  of  solitude.  Assured  on  that  point, 
she  was  presently  back  to  her  own  apartments. 

The  latter  young  lady  for  a  while  pleased  herself 
with  the  flowers,  and  the  clear  spring  gurgling  in  the 
patio.  Then  she  had  Cato  bring  up  Jet,  and  spring 
ing  to  the  saddle  went  for  a  little  gallop.  She  flat 
tered  herself  that  the  little  gallop  was  only  resorted 
to  as  a  means  of  breaking  the  slow  monotony  of  the 
afternoon.  It  is  worth  note,  however,  that  in  taking 
it  she  also  took  the  back-track  along  the  river  toward 
the  east.  She  even  extended  it  to  that  hill  which 
shut  in  the  Cross-8  from  the  cottonwood  bottoms, 
where  stood  the  lodge  of  Iron  jacket.  Her  courage  or 
her  curiosity,  or  whatever  attribute  more  romantic 
had  led  her  in  that  direction,  carried  her  no  farther. 

108 


THE    UNINVITED   GUEST 

What  if  he  of  the  gray  eyes  were  still  there?  She 
would  not  care  to  come  upon  him;  it  might  seem  in 
delicate!  With  these  thoughts,  which  were  highly 
proper,  Ethel  turned  back,  her  face — and  that  was 
the  unaccountable  thing — a  blushing  red. 

Aunt  Tilda  was  more  rationally  employed.  She 
busied  herself  with  a  thorough  investigation  of  Mex 
ican  housewifery  as  practiced  at  the  Cross-8.  The 
recondite  art  of  housekeeping  is  vastly  at  the  mercy 
of  an  environment,  and  Aunt  Tilda  was  anxious  to 
study  it,  in  all  its  length  and  breadth,  under  what 
might  be  called  Panhandle  limitations.  The  lesson 
was  not  without  its  several  alarming  sides;  but  Aunt 
Tilda's  courage  was  upheld  by  the  promise,  volun 
teered  by  the  urbane  Red  Bull,  to  give  her  three  of 
his  best  women  servants  as  kitchen  aides,  until  such 
time  as  the  housekeeping  at  the  Bar-Z  was  founded 
beyond  chance  of  fall. 

"They  will  not,"  explained  the  Red  Bull  apolo 
getically,  "  equal  as  housemaids  those  to  whom  you 
have  been  used.  Moreover,  you  must  drive  them, 
Madam;  drive  them  like  dogs!" 

Aunt  Tilda  thanked  him,  although  she  feared  that 
in  the  matter  of  " driving"  she  would  dismally  fail. 

Robert  expressed  himself  as  impatient  to  push  for 
ward  to  the  Bar-Z.  To  quiet  if  not  to  comfort  him, 
the  excellent  Red  Bull  took  him  down  to  the  ford. 

"This  is  the  only  ford  between  here  and  Tascosa," 
he  explained;  "and  since  the  Bar-Z  lies  north  of  the 
river,  here  you  must  cross." 

The  Red  Bull  ordered  one  of  his  Mexicans  to  take 
his  pony  into  the  ford,  and  show  the  depth.  Twenty 
feet  from  the  river's  margin  the  pony  slumped,  head 

109 


THE    THROWBACK 

and  ears,  into  one  of  those  basin-like  holes  which  are 
a  feature  of  Western  river-beds.  The  ruffling  current 
was  running  like  a  tail-race,  and  the  Mexican — who 
went  loyally  under  with  his  pony — was  swept  from 
the  saddle.  Spluttering  and  splashing,  the  pony  and 
the  Mexican  worked  their  several  ways  back  to  the 
bank. 

It  was  now  that  Robert  was  granted  a  disturbing 
exhibition  of  the  Red  Bull's  temper,  and  began  to 
understand  his  alias,  which  had  theretofore  struck 
him  as  slanderous.  As  the  Mexican,  all  a-drip  with 
water,  rode  up  the  slope  from  the  river's  edge,  the 
Red  Bull,  pouring  forth  a  cataract  of  curses,  rushed 
upon  him,  and  struck  him  from  the  saddle.  The 
Mexican  rolled  along  the  grass  until  out  of  harm's 
reach  and  then  scrambled  to  his  feet,  and  fled  howl 
ing.  The  frightened  pony  fled  after  him,  fearing  lest 
it  should  be  his  own  turn  next.  For  even  the  ponies 
knew  the  Red  Bull,  and  cared  not  for  his  company  in 
the  hour  of  his  anger. 

"Clumsy  scoundrel!"  cried  the  indignant  Red  Bull. 
"I'll  teach  him  to  stick  closer  to  his  saddle  next  time. 
He  might  have  lost  the  pony." 

The  Red  Bull's  visage,  which  had  become  apo 
plectic,  retreated  to  its  normal  hue  of  boiled  lobster, 
and  Robert  felt  relieved.  Still,  it  would  have  been 
hard  to  say  which  had  discouraged  him  most,  the 
tumultuous  river  or  the  even  more  tumultuous  Red 
Bull.  Robert  glanced  at  Don  Anton,  who  was  with 
them,  to  observe  how  he  viewed  the  fracas. 

Don  Anton — delicately  puffing  a  cigarette,  his  ex 
pression  one  of  inane  arrogance — prided  himself  as 
of  the  pure  blood  of  Spain.  Being  of  the  pure  blood, 

110 


THE    UNINVITED    GUEST 

it  did  not  become  him  to  concern  himself  about  a 
peon,  who  is  a  clod.  It  mattered  nothing  to  him 
how  violently  his  Red  Bull  father-in-law  elect  man 
handled  his  servitors;  and  his  looks  evinced  it. 

"At  any  rate,"  said  Robert,  replying  to  the  Red 
Bull's  indictment  of  the  unseated  one,  "he  made  it 
clear  that  the  ford  is  out  of  the  question  for  to-day." 

"For  to-day,  to-morrow  and  the  next  day,"  re 
turned  the  Red  Bull,  again  the  beaming  host  in  every 
lineament.  "On  the  fourth  day  I  shall  have  the 
ponies  brought  down  from  the  wire  pasture,  and 
straighten  up  the  crossing  for  you," 

Professor  Doremus  did  not  go  to  the  river.  Since 
the  visual  encounter  between  Moonlight  and  Robert, 
he  had  displayed  a  diminished  anxiety  for  Robert's 
society. 

"The  boy's  a  coward!"  mused  the  Professor  sadly. 
"He's  half  a  Gordon,  too!  I  wouldn't  have  believed 
it!" 

The  Professor,  early  in  the  day,  had  tried  to  talk 
with  Don  Anton.  The  inept  and  brainless  young 
rico  disappointed  him. 

"A  fop,  my  dear  Madam;  a  witless  wren-head!" 
was  what  he  told  Aunt  Tilda,  in  the  wake  of  that 
fragment  of  a  conversation.  "It  is  strange  how  a 
brilliant  girl  like  the  Dona  Inez  can  think  twice  of 
such  an  ass.  And  yet" — with  a  reminiscent  sigh— 
"how  frequently  do  the  brightest  and  most  beau 
teous  women  marry  fools!" 

The  Professor  made  a  foot  journey  among  "the 
peasantry,"  for  thus  he  styled  the  Mexicans  of  the 
Cross-8.  They  bowed  to  the  ground  before  him;  for 
was  he  not  a  "Don"?  and  hadn't  the  Red  Bull  him- 

111 


THE    THROWBACK 

self  rode  forth  to  bid  him  welcome?  This  Mexican 
deference  uplifted  the  Professor,  who  was  not  insen 
sible  to  flattery. 

He  found  the  Mexicans  disposed  to  make  much  of 
Cato  in  a  friendly  way.  The  two  American  mule- 
skinners,  who  drove  the  six-mule  teams  for  Robert, 
were  lying  by  their  own  fire,  and  managing  their  own 
camp  affairs.  They  made  an  unmuzzled  specialty  of 
their  contempt  for  Mexicans,  and  were  at  pains  to  let 
it  be  known.  The  latter  kept  away  from  them,  in  a 
mixture  of  hatred  and  fear.  They  drew  no  color 
line,  however,  and  would  have  taken  Cato  to  their 
social  bosoms.  Cato,  for  his  part,  turned  a  cold 
shoulder  to  their  polite  attentions,  and — your  true 
darky  never  fails  to  copy  the  white  man — was  as 
surly  and  repellant  as  were  the  teamsters. 

Observing  this,  the  Professor  was  moved  to  rebuke 
him. 

"They  are  to  be  your  neighbors,  Cato,"  he  said. 
"You  know  you  are  commanded  to  love  your  neigh 
bor  as  yourself." 

"Yassir,  Professah,"  returned  Cato.  "An*  I  says 
d'  same  thing.  'Love  your  neighbors!'  I  says;  an' 
then  I  adds  out  o'  d'  Christian  caution  of  my  heart: 
'But  doan't  take  down  your  fence!" 

The  Dona  Inez  and  Don  Anton  gave  one  another 
not  the  least  attention.  This  disturbed  Ethel;  it 
subtracted  from  the  romance  of  the  thing. 

"And  I  had  supposed  you  a  warm,  ardent  people!" 
she  said  to  the  Dona  Inez. 

"Warm?    Ardent?    And  so  we  are — given  right 


occasion." 


"And  do  you  not  call  your  betrothal  such?     The 
112 


THE    UNINVITED    GUEST 

more  I  see  of  you  and  Don  Anton,  the  less  I  under 
stand  how  you  became  engaged. " 

"  You  mean  betrothed?''  and  the  Dona  Inez  settled 
her  feathers  demurely.  "Ah,  yes!  That  was  settled 
between  Don  Anton  and  my  father. " 

"You  do  not  mean  that  you  are  compelled  to  wed 
Don  Anton?" 

"Compelled?— the  Dona  Inez?"  The  black  eyes 
blazed.  "No;  there  is  no  one — neither  my  father 
nor  Don  Anton — who  would  dare  employ  the  word 
'compel7  where  I  am  concerned.  But,  my  little  sis 
ter  from  the  East" — here  the  Dona  Inez  conferred 
upon  Ethel  that  queer  kittenish  tap — "as  she  says, 
cannot  understand.  Let  it  go;  it  amounts  to  naught. 
Don  Anton  and  I  are  betrothed,  and  will  some  day 
marry;  the  padre  will  be  paid  a  big  fee;  the  people 
will  rejoice  and  dance;  my  father  will  be  pleased; 
and  I — I  shall  not  care.  There,  that  is  enough!" 

The  Dona  Inez  tried  her  black  and  yellow  reboza 
on  Ethel  to  see  how  it  looked. 

"Now,"  said  the  Dona  Inez,  with  a  milliner-like 
cock  to  her  pretty  head,  "all  you  need  is  a  short 
petticoat,  a  black  velvet  bodice,  some  lace  about 
your  throat,  and  a  tortoise-shell  comb,  to  make  you 
a  beauty  of  Old  Madrid." 

The  Mexican  is  no  one  to  permit  his  work  to  inter 
fere  with  his  festivals,  and  the  second  day  at  the 
Cross-8  took  on  a  livelier  color.  The  projected  mer 
rymaking  had  been  given  wide-flung  advertisement; 
hospitable  word  of  it  had  not  alone  gone  up  and  down 
the  Canadian,  but  had  traveled  as  far  northward  as 
the  Cimarron,  and  as  far  westward  as  the  Pecos. 

With  the  earliest  streaks  of  dawn  the  guests  began 
113 


THE    THROWBACK 

to  gather.  Professor  Doremus,  remembering  the 
empty  wilderness  through  which  he  had  come,  mar 
veled  at  their  numbers.  The  throng  all  day  poured 
into  the  cleared  space  about  the  ranch-house.  They 
were  of  every  sort  and  condition;  every  rank  had  its 
representative,  and  all  were  welcome.  Some  were  on 
ponies;  some  arrived  in  ancient  carriages  drawn  by 
sleek,  sleepy  mules;  others  came  in  leather-lined  ox 
carts,  the  wheels  of  which  had  never  heard  of  wagon- 
grease,  and  wailed  and  shrieked  most  dolorously;  still 
others  rode  in  on  little  donkeys,  legs  dangling  to  the 
ground.  There  were  men,  women,  boys,  girls,  babes 
in  arms;  and  these,  with  the  ponies,  mules,  donkeys, 
and  a  legion  of  dogs  made  up  a  checkered  spectacle. 

The  Red  Bull  was  lifted  to  a  topmost  pinnacle  of 
satisfaction;  for  he  was  never  so  pleased  as  when 
playing  the  host.  He  greeted  one  and  all  with  a 
cordiality  that  never  wavered.  Saint  and  sinner,  high 
and  low,  the  greasy  and  the  well-clad — he  made  every 
one  welcome. 

As  fast  as  they  put  in  an  appearance,  little  clots 
and  family  knots  of  folk  pitched  their  respective 
camps.  In  the  end,  full  five  hundred  were  gathered, 
and  all  in  their  gayest  colors.  It  looked  as  though 
some  fair  or  kermess  were  being  held. 

The  Cross-8  herders  drove  in  fat  cattle,  and  the 
guests — fires  going,  kettles  boiling — drew  their  knives 
for  slaughter.  They  went  to  the  ranch  store,  and, 
without  money  and  without  price  were  given  tobacco, 
flour,  molasses,  coffee,  sugar,  and  goods  in  tins.  It 
was  a  season  of  prodigality  and  plenty,  one  calcu 
lated  to  spread  abroad  the  Red  Bull's  name. 

The  sola,  sixty  feet  by  thirty,  was  to  be  the  ball- 
114 


THE    UNINVITED    GUEST 

room.  All  about  its  whitewashed  walls  were  placed 
temporary  tiers  of  seats,  like  those  in  an  amphitheater. 
These  were  for  the  good  of  ones  who  by  reason  of  years 
or  gravity  did  not  dance.  In  a  smaller  room  were 
wines  and  mescal  and  waters  even  stronger.  There 
were  no  restrictions;  all  who  would  went  in  and 
helped  themselves.  This  license  was  possible  with 
Mexicans,  who  are  considerate  drinkers,  and  tally  up 
their  cups  with  caution. 

One  feature  pleased  Professor  Doremus;  the  sola 
and  the  dependent  apartments  were  lighted  by  coal- 
oil  lamps.  These  he  regarded  as  so  many  entering 
wedges  of  civilization,  destined  at  last  to  split  the 
savage  desert  and  destroy  it.  He  had  expected  pine- 
knots  and  rude  torches,  or  at  the  best  candles  of  the 
tallow-dip  variety.  Wherefore,  those  coal-oil  lamps, 
with  their  smoke-smudged  chimneys,  much  upbuoyed 
his  spirits,  and  became  to  him  as  the  shadow  of  a 
great  rock  in  a  weary  land. 

The  dancing  began  early;  the  oldsters  with  the 
babies  ranged  themselves  about  the  walls  eating 
sweetmeats  and  smoking  cigarettes,  while  the  beauty 
and  chivalry  crowded  the  dancing  space  in  the  mid 
dle.  The  orchestra — two  fiddles,  two  guitars,  and  a 
tin  can  half-filled  with  pebbles  wherewith  to  beat  out 
the  tempo — led  by  an  aged  Guitarero,  had  been  given 
honorable  elevation  on  a  platform  raised  at  one  end 
of  the  room.  The  old  Guitarero — who  for  long  had 
been  the  poet  laureate  of  the  Canadian — being  stimu 
lated  of  mescal,  as  the  evening  wore  on,  gave  way  to 
vocal  outbursts,  recitative  of  the  glories  and  the  vir 
tues  of  our  four  from  old  Somerset.  Robert  was  a  jav 
elin — a  thunderbolt — a  very  Hector  for  valor.  Pro- 

115 


THE    THROWBACK 

fessor  Doremus  was,  for  his  wisdom,  likened  unto  a 
beaver  or  a  bear.  Aunt  Tilda  was  exalted  as  t"ie 
staid  and  virtuous  matron,  ruling  all,  providing  for 
all.  Ethel  found  description  as  a  song  and  a  sun 
beam — the  beautiful  mother  of  flowers  and  dear 
dreams.  The  old  minstrel  sang  in  Spanish;  but 
the  Red  Bull  was  so  good  as  to  interpret.  There 
upon  Robert  strutted,  Aunt  Tilda  bridled,  Ethel 
blushed,  while  the  Professor  beamed. 

The  Professor  said  the  old  Guitarero  was  a  man  of 
genius,  and  privily  bestowed  upon  him  largesse  to 
the  extent  of  a  double  eagle — yellow  and  fresh  gleam 
ing  from  the  mint.  At  this  the  old  Guitarero  became 
excited,  and  sang  another  song,  devoted  wholly  to 
the  Professor,  and  so  far  amending  mythology  as  to 
describe  that  learned  man  as  a  demigod  of  erudition 
and  Minerva's  eldest  son. 

Don  Anton  languidly  walked  the  Dona  Inez 
through  one  dance,  carrying  her  at  his  finger  tips  to 
demonstrate  the  noble  difference  between  himself 
and  a  commoner  clay  that  would  have  clasped  so 
lovely  a  partner  to  its  bosom.  After  this  exploit, 
which  was  in  the  nature  of  a  concession  to  popular 
desire,  Don  Anton  danced  no  more.  Thereby  he  pre 
served  for  himself,  as  he  would  have  said,  a  haughty 
separation  from  the  dancing  herd.  As  for  the  Dona 
Inez,  she  was  quite  as  well  pleased,  preferring  to  sit 
by  Ethel — who  did  not  dance. 

The  Professor  did  not  go  unaffected  of  the  lively 
scene.  The  pretty  faces  laid  hold  on  his  fancy.  At 
last,  warmed  by  the  music,  and  perhaps  the  mescal 
—which  latter  he  tasted  in  a  scientific  spirit  in  order 
to  inform  himself  touching  the  drinks  of  the  country 

116 


THE    UNINVITED    GUEST 

— he  outraged  Aunt  Tilda  by  uttering  these  wild 
words : 

"My  dear  Madam,  I  shall  join  in  the  next  waltz." 

"Professor!" 

There  was  a  frozen  something  in  Aunt  Tilda's 
tones. 

"Not  if  you  object,  my  dear  Madam/'  murmured 
the  Professor  abjectly.  "I  only  thought  of  doing 
honor  to  our  worthy  host." 

"Honor!  Dancing  at  your  age,  and  with  a  slip  of  a 
Mexican  girl!  Professor!" 

Many  a  poor  soul  in  moment  of  direst  peril  has  been 
saved  by  the  unexpected,  and  so  with  the  guilty  Pro 
fessor.  Aunt  Tilda  was  bending  upon  him  a  shocked, 
corrective  eye,  and  plainly  meditating  a  more  elabo 
rate  reproof,  when  the  attention  of  both  was  drawn 
to  their  host.  A  repellant  looking  Mexican  had  tip 
toed  across  and  whispered  something  to  him  in  Span 
ish,  the  only  understandable  word  being  Americanos. 

The  Red  Bull  arched  his  bald  eyebrows  with  sur 
prise  and  dismay.  Hastily  excusing  himself  to  Aunt 
Tilda,  he  left  the  sola.  As  he  did  so  he  gave  a  half- 
apprehensive  glance  toward  Don  Anton,  where  that 
young  patrician,  puffing  a  cigarette  and  looking  in 
effably  bored,  stood  leaning  against  the  wall. 

The  lax  etiquette  of  the  Panhandle  in  no  wise  pro 
vided  for  any  peculiar  demonstration  of  either  re 
spect  or  welcome  upon  the  coming  of  a  guest.  The 
padre  who  was  present — and  a  holy  man  among 
Mexicans  is  of  much  station — had  not  been  granted 
especial  notice.  Folk  were  expected  to  attend  the 
baile  without  invitation,  and  leave  without  farewell; 
in  their  coming  and  staying  and  going  they  were  to 

117 


THE    THROWBACK 

consult  only  their  own  pleasure.  That  a  guest  h^d 
appeared,  to  whose  reception  the  host  himself  must 
personally  attend,  was  decidedly  beyond  the  common. 
The  wonder  of  it  might  be  read  in  the  whispered  com 
ments  and  queries  that  went  buzzing  from  lip  to  lip. 

Expectation  was  not  kept  waiting.  The  Red  Bull 
shortly  returned;  and  with  him  came  Moonlight, 
followed  by  JefT  Home  and  Red  River  Bill,  the  two 
latter  wearing  what  JefT  would  have  called  their 
"gala  expression." 

The  Red  Bull  showed  ill  at  ease,  while  doing  his 
best  to  be  polite.  To  relieve  what  was  unmistakably 
a  strain,  for  all  his  cheerful  fortitude,  he  made  a  signal 
to  the  old  Guitarero.  That  virtuoso  replied  with  the 
music  for  a  quadrille,  by  which  diplomacy  public  in 
terest  was  again  set  flowing  in  channels  normal.  An 
eager  covey  of  dancers  quickly  filled  the  floor. 

It  required  no  deep  diving  beneath  the  surface  to 
see  that  the  advent  of  Moonlight  had  not  multiplied 
the  gayety  of  the  company.  There  was  an  odd  look 
of  timid  uncertainty  that  almost  amounted  to  alarm 
in  every  Mexican  face.  Clearly  the  newcomers  needed 
no  introduction;  it  stood  apparent  that  they  were 
known  and  feared.  Also,  as  one  might  tell  by  the 
soft  glances  of  the  senoritas,  they  were  objects  of  shy 
admiration  in  certain  blooming  quarters.  Having  ad 
vantage  of  this  last,  Red  River  at  once  led  forth  a 
damsel  to  the  dance.  Thereupon,  the  damsel  thus 
distinguished  waxed  blushingly  proud,  while  sundry 
males  among  the  Mexicans  glowered. 

Jeff  Home,  being  above  such  frivolities  as  qua 
drilles,  made  signs  of  amity  to  Professor  Doremus, 
whom  he  had  quickly  singled  out.  These  friendly 

118 


THE    UNINVITED    GUEST 

signals  so  far  won  upon  the  Professor  that  he  joined 
the  sociable  Jeff,  and  presently  the  pair  disappeared 
in  the  direction  of  that  room  which  held  the  refresh 
ments.  During  the  evening  the  Professor  returned 
to  Aunt  Tilda  at  unsteady  intervals,  and  assured  her 
that  his  new  friend  was  a  remarkable  man. 

"Mosht  remarkable,  this  Mr.  Home,  my  dear 
Madam;  mosht  remarkable  man  I  ever  met!"  said 
the  Professor;  after  which  he  would  again  join  that 
interesting  individual,  and  again  they  would  disap 
pear. 

Moonlight  would  in  no  wise  have  reminded  one  of 
that  pensive  youth  who,  self-accusatory  and  deplor 
ing  his  barbaric  manner  of  life,  sat  so  gloomily  on  a 
recent  evening  over  the  camp-fire  of  the  Kiowa.  So 
far  from  regretting,  he  would  seem  to  have  returned 
to  a  present  existence,  and  returned  with  open 
arms. 

His  costume  was  that  of  a  Mexican  rico,  and  for  an 
arrogance  of  splendor  would  have  shamed  a  peacock. 
There  had  been  no  laying  aside  of  hats  at  the  baile, 
and  Moonlight  wore  his.  Its  broad  brim  was  even 
more  richly  decked  of  bullion  and  hawk's  bells  than 
was  Don  Anton's  own.  About  it,  in  lieu  of  band, 
coiled  a  rattlesnake  done  in  gold  filigree,  head  well 
down  on  the  hat-brim,  two  blazing  rubies  for  eyes. 
His  jacket  arid  trousers  were  of  moss-green  velvet, 
the  latter  slashed  below  the  knee,  Spanish  fashion, 
with  wine-colored  silk,  the  whole  ornamented  along 
the  outer  seams  and  caught  in  at  the  belt,  with  clasps 
and  buttons  of  gold.  The  jacket,  open  in  front,  dis 
played  a  ruffle  of  fine  linen.  The  waist  was  girt  about 
by  a  Colt;s-45  pistol,  and  a  nine-inch  bowie  knife; 

119 


THE    THROWBACK 

the  belt,  scabbard,  and  holster  that  upheld  knife  and 
pistol  being  of  green  leather  to  match  the  green  velvet 
of  coat  and  trousers.  Half  covering  the  belt  and  the 
cartridges  which  corrugated  it,  was  a  thick  sash,  wines- 
color  like  the  silk  slashings  of  the  trousers.  On  the 
heels  of  the  Mexican  boots  jingled  great  spurs  of 
silver  and  wrought  steel. 

Ethel  regarded  him  with  emotions  sadly  mixed. 
The  velvet  costume  set  off  his  broad  shoulders,  deep 
chest,  slim  waist  and  narrow  hips  to  advantage,  and 
she  felt  rather  than  confessed  that  she  had  never  be 
held  a  handsomer  figure. 

And  yet  there  was  that  about  him  which  frightened 
while  it  drew  her  forward.  His  attitude  was  one 
of  rudest  challenge  as  though  a  cock  had  crowed. 
There  was  nothing  of  refinement,  nothing  of  vulgar 
ity,  as  she  understood  the  words.  If  anything  there 
was  a  super-refined  savagery.  It  was  like  an  in 
sufferable  but  honest  bragging.  His  defying  glances 
roved  from  face  to  face.  There  was  no  modesty;  all 
was  aggression;  he  seemed  to  swell  with  a  sublime 
insolence  that  fairly  filled  the  room. 

Never  once  did  he  speak  to  a  man;  it  was  as 
though  they  were  below  contempt.  But  he  had 
word  and  smile  for  every  pretty  face,  and  all  with 
the  manner  of  a  master.  So  dangerous  was  the 
impression  which  he  threw  off  that,  wherever  he 
went — and  he  was  constantly  moving  about — the 
men  shrunk  away  from  him  as  though  daunted. 
And  so  he  continued,  a  living,  breathing,  boasting 
insult  in  green  velvet,  and  studied  to  be  so.  His 
glance  taunted,  his  expression  sneered. 

Ethel  sat  in  a  daze  of  angry  admiration.    She  felt 
120 


THE    UNINVITED    GUEST 

that  if  she  were  a  man  she  would  hate  him,  and  war 
with  him  to  the  death.  And,  while  she  was  so  fired 
with  anger  in  the  subjunctive,  her  swimming  eye  and 
quick  beating  heart  told  her  that  she  was  not  a  man 
but  a  woman.  She  shot  a  resentful  look  at  Robert. 
His  gaze  was  on  the  floor,  and  in  his  cheek — she 
thought  it  showed  a  pallor — something  beat  like  a 
pulse.  Over  across,  Don  Anton  was  contemplating 
his  slim  fingers,  striving  to  seem  at  ease;  and  all  the 
while  his  beady  eyes  burned  with  a  rat-anger  of  min 
gled  rage  and  fear.  And  so  this  savage  in  green 
velvet  swaggered  and  swelled  and  strutted  and  chal 
lenged  unchecked.  No  one  stood  forward;  it  was  as 
though  he  threw  down  a  glove,  and  none  lifted  it. 

Ethel  was  caught  up  in  an  eddy  of  desperation. 
She  tried  many  times  to  despise  him;  but  it  always 
ended  in  contempt  for  those  others.  Every  man 
who  owned  one  was  wearing  a  pistol;  and  Ethel 
— who  had  slipped  more  into  the  spirit  of  the  region 
than  she  would  have  been  ready  to  admit — found 
herself  indignantly  wondering,  in  view  of  a  present 
backwardness,  by  what  masculine  right  they  carried 
such  stern  embellishments.  Professor  Doremus  was 
nowhere  to  be  seen,  being  indeed  in  the  refreshment 
room  in  weighty  confab  over  Panhandle  questions 
and  things  with  the  not  to  be  too  much  admired 
Jeff.  Of  all  within  reach,  Ethel  was  driven  to  yield 
most  respect  to  their  host;  who,  while  in  an  evi 
dent  perspiration,  seemed  best  to  maintain  erect  his 
manhood  before  this  swash-buckler. 

"They  are  all  afraid!    Bah!" 

Ethel  gave  a  start.  It  was  the  lisping  voice  of  the 
Dona  Inez ;  and  yet,  soft  as  were  the  tones,  such  was 

121 


THE    THROWBACK 

the  tension  of  Ethel's  drawn  nerves  that  they  struck 
upon  her  ear  like  the  booming  of  a  great  bell. 

The  Dona  Inez  arose,  and  stepped  down  among  the 
dancers.  She  said  a  sharp  word  in  Spanish;  the  mu 
sic  ceased,  and  the  dancers  quitted  the  floor. 

The  orchestra  now  broke  into  a  Spanish  dance  that 
rose  and  fell  and  swelled  and  died  away  in  an  aban 
don  of  passion.  The  Dona  Inez  appeared  to  melt 
into  the  motion  and  the  rhythm  of  that  dance;  it  was 
as  though  she  became  a  part  of  the  music.  At  first 
slow  and  dreamy,  soon  her  steps  took  on  the  spring 
and  fire  of  a  panther.  Ethel  watched  her  in  a  rapt 
way  as  if  locked  in  a  trance. 

The  Dona  Inez  whirled  by  Don  Anton.  As  she 
passed  she  whipped  off  his  wide  hat,  and  jauntily 
fitted  it  to  her  own  little  head.  She  floated  across 
to  the  masterful  one  in  green.  Then  she  wooed  him 
with  body  and  arms  and  languishing  eyes. 

The  old  Guitarero  began  to  sing.  Never  had  he 
been  so  eloquent,  never  flowed  his  verse  so  free, 
as  now  when  he  chanted  the  loveliness  of  the  Doiia 
Inez  and  the  gallantry  of  her  selected  cavalier.  The 
company,  with  parted  lips,  looked  on,  while  the 
two  swept  through  the  dance.  There  were  cries 
of  admiration,  as  the  Dona  Inez  approached,  re 
treated,  repelled  or  surrendered.  There  was  a  swirl 
and  a  sway  to  it  that  swallowed  up  the  senses  of 
the  onlookers.  When  it  was  ended,  one  wondered 
if  it  were  not  a  vision  that  had  come  and  gone.  The 
music  closed  with  a  crash  that  seemed  to  threaten 
every  string  of  the  old  Guitarero.  And  then,  for  a 
last  tableau,  there  was  the  green  masterful  one  on  his 
knee,  with  the  little  hand  of  the  Dona  Inez  to  his 

122 


THE    UNINVITED    GUEST 

lips.  Panting  and  fire-eyed,  the  Dona  Inez  spoke 
a  word  or  two  in  soft  Spanish.  He  led  her  to  her 
seat,  bowed  low  with  hat  sweeping  the  ground, 
and  backed  from  her  as  from  a  queen. 

Flushed  of  cheek,  and  still  breathing  short  and 
deep,  the  Dona  Inez  turned  to  Ethel. 

"Is  he  not  magnificent!"  she  said.  Then  with  a 
comprehensive  glance  of  scorn  that  took  in  the  entire 
sola:  "They  fear  him!  See  how  small  they  become 
in  his  presence!" 

Ethel  made  no  reply.  There  was  a  soreness  in  her 
heart  to  which  she  could  have  given  no  name,  and 
she  had  begun  to  hate  the  Dona  Inez.  She  lifted 
her  eyes  for  another  look  at  the  arrogant  one  in  green. 
Something  caught  in  her  throat  like  a  sob;  he  was 
nowhere  to  be  seen.  While  she  listened  to  the  Dona 
Inez  he  had  vanished. 

The  Dona  Inez  laughed  a  teasing  little  laugh. 

"Ah!"  she  whispered,  "it  is  he  who  is  the  lover! 
Don't  sigh;  you  shall  see  him  to-morrow  at  the 
roping. " 

Ethel  colored  to  her  small  ears;  but  somewhere, 
somehow,  there  lurked  comfort  in  the  words  of  the 
Dona  Inez. 

While  the  arrogant  green  one  and  the  Dona  Inez 
went  circling  and  swaying  through  the  dance,  Don 
Anton,  pale  as  paper  in  spite  of  his  swarthy  skin, 
stood  gnawing  his  mustache  and  wrathfully  pluck 
ing  his  little  pointed  beard.  He  beckoned  to  his  side 
a  hang-dog  murderous  creature,  whose  ugly,  half- 
Indian  face  had  been  rendered  uglier  by  a  puckering 
lance  scar  in  the  left  cheek.  Don  Anton  said  some 
thing  under  his  breath  that  sounded  like  the  hissing 

123 


THE    THROWBACK 

of  a  serpent.  The  other  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and 
turned  his  palms  outward  and  upward  in  shuffling 
remonstrance. 

"What!"  smiled  Don  Anton;  "must  I  feed  such 
dogs  as  you  a  year  to  have  you  fail  me  for  a  day? 
Is  it  now  that  you  grow  sick  at  a  thought  of  blood 
—you  who  call  yourself  Pedro  of  the  Knife?" 

The  murderous  lance-scarred  Pedro  whined  fero 
ciously. 

"To-morrow!"  he  pleaded.  "It  cannot  be  done 
now!  Is  Don  Anton  blind?" 

He  gave  a  directing  nod.  There,  squarely  across, 
stood  Jeff  Home  and  Red  River  Bill,  watchful  as  fer 
rets,  guarding  the  perilous  gallantries  of  their  young 
chief.  Even  as  Don  Anton  looked  their  steady  eyes 
were  upon  him. 

"Do  you  not  see,  Senor?"  whispered  Pedro  of  the 
Knife.  "Let  us  but  move  an  eyelash,  and  we  are 
dead  men.  Those  gringoes  will  slay  us  both." 


124 


CHAPTER  X 
THE  KNIFE  OF  DON  ANTON 

THERE  was  a  deal  of  riding  and  jubilant  rushing 
about  at  the  Cross-8,  on  the  day  following  the  baile. 
That  roping  and  bronco  riding  tournament,  for  Don 
Anton's  Chihuahua  saddle,  was  to  occur,  and  the 
contestants  were  making  busy  preparations.  Since 
the  competitors  did  not  number  more  than  a  dozen 
there  would  be  interested  scores  to  look  on.  This 
last  argued  a  spirited  exhibition.  It  is  required  that 
men's  vanity  be  addressed,  if  one  would  secure  their 
best  effort,  whether  of  business  or  play,  and  that  is 
done  only  through  a  full  grandstand.  Humanity  be 
comes  exceeding  listless  when  acting  under  no  eye  and 
inspired  of  no  approval  save  its  own. 

The  riding  and  steer-throwing  was  to  take  place  on 
a  flat  grassy  space  of  perhaps  ten  acres.  The  ground 
was  marked  off  by  men  on  ponies,  who  busied  them 
selves  in  riding  its  boundaries,  while  those  who  were 
to  be  onlookers  fringed  it  about  like  a  fence.  Three 
gray  Mexicans,  past-masters  of  rope  and  saddle  when 
the  oldest  among  those  who  would  compete  was  being 
carried  in  his  mother's  arms,  had  been  told  off  by  the 
Red  Bull  to  serve  as  judges. 

The  tournament  was  not  to  begin  until  the  judges 
signaled;  meanwhile  the  assembled  Mexicans,  afoot 
with  the  first  of  the  sun,  lounged  about  after  their 

125 


THE    THROWBACK 

own  private  tastes  and  inclinations.  The  older  ones 
gave  themselves  up  to  talk;  for  Mexicans  are  as  con 
versational  as  bluejays. 

Old  crones,  equipped  of  cooking  kits,  which  the}r 
carried  packed  upon  burros,  opened  impromptu  res 
taurants,  the  basis  being  a  little  fire  kindled  upon  the 
grass,  and  proceeded  to  dispense  frijoles,  and  tortillas, 
and  whatever  else  in  the  way  of  viands  could  be  man 
ufactured  from  such  raw  materials  as  green  and  red 
peppers,  beef,  beans  and  cornmeal.  The  Mexican  is 
one  to  whom  stated  hours  for  meals  is  of  as  much  unim 
portance  as  they  are  to  a  blanket  Indian,  and  like  the; 
Indian  he  is  always  hungry. 

Professor  Doremus  was  prominent  among  the 
patrons  of  the  old  crone  cooks.  Pleased  with  every 
thing,  and  beset  by  an  anxiety  for  information  that 
cannot  be  too  highly  extolled,  he  became  inde 
fatigable  in  his  attempts  to  acquire  the  recondite 
art  of  using  a  tortilla  as  a  spoon — an  art  that  in 
cludes  devouring  the  spoon  together  with  the  soupy 
freight  of  frijoles  which  one  has  scooped  up. 

Aunt  Tilda  was  not  altogether  pleased  with  these 
amiable  alacrities  on  the  part  of  her  old  friend  to 
enter  into  the  simple  manners  of  the  Mexicans,  hold 
ing  such  to  be  an  unbending,  and  to  one  side  of  what 
paths  his  years  and  dignity  should  tread.  And  yet 
in  general  she  permitted  them  unrebuked,  only  once 
drawing  the  line.  The  last  occurred  when  a  cock 
fight  was  on  the  carpet. 

Many  of  the  younger  Mexicans,  and  others  who 
were  not  so  young,  with  a  forethoughtful  eye  to  the 
possibilities,  had  brought  their  game  cocks.  Matches 
were  made  and  wagers  laid,  and  a  breathless  circle 

126 


THE    KNIFE    OF   DON    ANTON 

ringed  the  quarrelsome  birds  about.  As  indicating 
a  certain  advance  in  civilization,  it  should  be  ob 
served  that  the  steel  gaffs  wherewith  the  birds  were 
heeled  were  "drop-sockets'7  of  the  most  modern  pat 
terns.  Also,  as  the  feathered  fighters  flew  at  one  an 
other,  those  who  laid  wagers — a  Mexican  takes  his 
religion  into  everything — told  their  beads  and  rat 
tled  off  whispered  prayers  for  the  success  of  their 
favorites. 

It  was  when  the  Professor,  whose  faraway  youth 
had  not  gone  uncomforted  of  cock-fighting,  showed 
signs  of  granting  his  personal  countenance  to  one  of 
these  duels,  that  Aunt  Tilda  set  down  her  foot. 

"  You  shall  not  do  it,  Professor !"  she  cried.  "  Really ! 
you  grow  worse  with  time.  Last  night  you  would 
have  disgraced  yourself  by  dancing,  actually  danc 
ing  with  a  chit  of  a  girl;  and  now  you  seek  to  descend 
still  lower,  and  witness  these  brutal  pastimes.  You 
shall  not  do  it!'1 

The  Professor  was  sensibly  abashed;  but  the 
coming  "buckle"  was  to  be  between  a  duck-wing 
and  a  red  shawl-neck,  strains  whereof  the  Professor 
had  for  long  maintained  a  mixed  though  high  opin 
ion.  This  moved  him  to  mildly  contest  the  point. 
In  a  gingerly  way  he  called  Aunt  Tilda's  attention 
to  the  reverend  padre,  who  was  not  only  prepared 
to  be  a  spectator  of  the  battle,  but,  in  sober  truth, 
was  the  owner  of  the  duck-wing.  Certainly,  a  lay 
man  could  not  go  far  astray  while  following  so  holy 
an  example.  Moreover — as  the  Professor  ingen 
iously  suggested — the  cocks  liked  it. 

"It  is  not,  my  dear  Madam,"  urged  the  Professor 
timidly,  "  the  same  as  chasing  a  terrified  fox  or  butch- 

127 


THE    THROWBACK 

ering  an  unfortunate  quail.  The  cocks  are  never  more 
happy.  They  but  express  their  nature;  and  indeed 
it  has  often  been  subject  of  doubt  with  me  as  to  how 
far  we  should  go  in  stigmatizing  as  brutal  anything 
that  is  natural." 

Aunt  Tilda  proved  adamant. 

"I  refuse  to  disgrace  myself  by  discussing  it,"  she 
said,  and  taking  the  Professor's  reluctant  arm,  she  led 
him  to  a  more  innocent  corner  of  the  field. 

The  Dona  Inez  and  Ethel  moved  slowly  from  one 
group  to  another.  Ethel  could  not  understand  the 
chatter,  but  the  liveliness  of  the  scene  and  the  many 
colored  dresses  appealed  to  her.  At  times  she  could 
not  refrain  from  casting  here  and  there  a  furtive 
glance,  as  though  looking  for  one  not  yet  come.  Once 
she  even  sighed. 

"He  will  come,"  whispered  the  Dona  Inez,  as 
though  replying  to  the  sigh;  "you  need  have  no 
fears.  The  contests  are  not  yet  ready." 

Ethel  appeared  to  understand. 

"Had  you  met  him  before  last  evening?"  Ethel 
asked,  trying  to  show  unconcern.  "Do  you  know 
him?" 

"I  know  of  him,"  returned  the  Dona  Inez  com 
posedly.  "My  father  has  often  spoken  of  him.  He 
is  no  friend  of  ours,  and  has  driven  off  Don  Anton's 
cattle." 

"If  that  be  so,"  returned  Ethel,  bewildered  by 
what  the  Dona  Inez  said  and  the  remembrance  of 
that  whirling,  swaying,  breath-stealing  dance — "if 
that  be  so,  I  cannot  understand  how  you  would 
dance  with  him." 

"As  to  that,"  responded  the  Dona  Inez  carelessly, 
128 


THE    KNIFE    OF    DON    ANTON 

"the  coming  of  this  !Senor  Moonlight  to  our  house 
was  a  challenge.  He  meant  it  to  be  such;  and  you, 
yourself,  beheld  how  they  fell  away  before  him  like 
sheep.  Don  Anton  understood;  I  danced  with  him 
to  do  him  honor.  He  had  braved  our  men;  he  was 
entitled  to  our  women.  I  could  do  no  less  than  re 
ward  him  with  the  submission  of  that  dance.  It  was 
his  right." 

Ethel  made  no  reply;  the  queer  social  logic  of  the 
dark,  half-savage  beauty  in  its  bizarre  fantasticism 
was  beyond  the  grasp  of  her  more  civilized  compre 
hension.  The  two  were  silent  for  a  moment;  then  the 
Dona  Inez  plucked  Ethel  by  the  sleeve. 

11  There  he  is  for  whom  you  wait,"  she  whispered, 
with  just  the  color  of  mockery  in  her  manner.  "He 
comes  early." 

On  the  far  side  of  the  field,  ponies  at  a  walk,  were 
riding  the  enigmatical  Moonlight  and  his  adherents, 
Jeff  Home  and  Red  River  Bill.  They  swung  to  the 
ground,  and  lifting  the  reins  over  their  ponies'  heads, 
left  them  to  graze.  Naturalists  do  not  account  for 
it,  but — bridled  and  saddled — a  mustang  will  stand 
for  a  week  as  though  tied  to  a  post,  if  the  rider  upon 
dismounting  but  throw  the  bridle-reins  upon  the 
ground. 

Moonlight  and  his  companions  made  no  motion  to 
cross  to  where  the  Dona  Inez  and  Ethel  were  stand 
ing,  full  forty  rods  away.  Near  where  they  dis 
mounted,  Frosty,  that  Tascosa  courtier  of  fortune 
mentioned  by  Jeff,  was  offering  to  engage  all  comers 
at  the  game,  so  fascinating  to  Mexicans,  called  monte. 

"What's  your  limit?"  asked  Moonlight. 

"The  limit?"  repeated  Frosty— "the  limit,  Cap- 
129 


THE    THROWBACK 

tain,  is  the  blue  dome  above."  Then  he  added: 
"I'd  be  ashamed  to  talk  of  limits  to  this  band  of 
Mexican  pikers." 

Moonlight  did  not  take  extravagant  advantage  of 
the  reckless  Frosty's  liberality,  but  restricted  himself 
in  the  measure  of  his  bets.  Red  River  Bill,  with 
whom  gambling  was  a  passion  second  only  to  that 
of  dancing,  also  put  down  a  moderate  stake  or  two. 
Fortune  ran  evenly,  and  neither  Moonlight  nor  Red 
River  at  any  time  was  far  ahead  or  far  behind. 

While  the  two  were  thus  engaged,  Don  Anton  rode 
up  to  the  Dona  Inez  and  Ethel.  He  was  in  a  most 
affable  mood,  and  nothing  could  have  been  more 
blandly  courteous  than  were  his  greetings.  The  Dona 
Inez,  apparently,  was  willing  to  cloud  his  brow,  for 
she  at  once  drew  his  attention — with  a  word  in  Span 
ish  into  which  a  taunt  was  flung — to  the  hated  Moon 
light. 

"The  brave  ever  love  the  brave,"  said  the  Doiia 
Inez  mockingly,  "and  so,  Don  Anton,  I  show  you 
that  Captain  Moonlight.  You  saw  him  dance  last 
night.  Was  he  not  superb?  Did  lady  ever  have  a 
more  gallant  partner?" 

This  was  said  in  Spanish,  but  Ethel  gained  a  close 
guess  at  its  meaning,  for  there  came  a  white,  angry 
flash  of  teeth  behind  Don  Anton's  inky  mustache. 
A  frown  like  thunder  darkened  his  brow. 

"Yes,"  said  the  Dona  Inez,  "it  is  safe  to  scowl  at 
this  distance." 

Don  Anton,  with  a  gesture  of  rage,  threw  himself 
on  his  pony  and  spurred  away. 

"He  goes  for  his  Pedro  of  the  Knife,"  observed 
the  Dona  Inez,  looking  after  the  disappearing  figure 

130 


THE    KNIFE    OF    DON    ANTON 

of  her  betrothed.  Then,  with  a  mixture  of  com 
plaint  and  contempt,  she  continued:  "Will  he  never 
summon  the  manhood  to  do  his  own  killing!" 

The  dark  inference  of  the  words  would  have 
alarmed  Ethel,  if  she  had  even  in  part  understood; 
but  in  what  she  said,  as  well  as  in  what  she  did,  the 
Dona  Inez  was  an  unsolved  enigma.  If,  however, 
Don  Anton  had  gone  for  Pedro  of  the  Knife,  there 
arose  no  disturbing  evidence  of  it.  Perhaps  the 
Dona  Inez  was  in  error. 

While  Moonlight  and  Red  River  gave  their  ener 
gies  to  monte,  Jeff  Home,  although  seemingly  an 
absorbed  spectator  of  the  play,  maintained  a  close 
watch  upon  the  assembled  Mexicans.  Not  that  he 
looked  for  trouble;  but  he  was  a  careful  man,  and 
had  lived  long  on  the  sunset  side  of  the  Missouri. 

"It  would  shore  mortify  me  to  death,"  said  he, 
explaining  his  vigilance  to  Frosty,  "if  I  let  a  passel 
of  black  an'  tans,  like  them  Cross-8  Mexicans,  open 
a  game  on  me  onexpected." 

No  one  attempted  to  open  any  game;  and  the 
gossiping,  the  gambling,  the  cock-fighting,  the  gallop 
ing  of  ponies  and  the  consumption  of  tortillas  and  fri- 
joles  with  a  blue  cloud  of  cigarette  smoke  over  all 
persisted  undisturbed. 

The  three  gray  judges  rode  slowly  into  the  center 
of  the  field.  One  of  them  made  brief  proclamation 
in  Spanish.  It  was  in  effect  a  terse  announcement  of 
the  programme,  coupled  with  an  enumeration  of  the 
prizes  and  an  exhortation  to  the  boundary  riders  to 
keep  the  ground.  The  latter  at  this,  feeling  upon 
them  the  eyes  of  the  public,  spurred  furiously  along 
the  lines.  These  demonstrations  of  zeal  and  horse- 

131 


THE    THROWBACK 

manship  added  an  eclat  to  the  scene  to  be  arrived  at 
in  no  other  way. 

The  judges,  having  formally  opened  the  lists,  sum 
moned  the  competitors,  who  came  forward  carrying 
bridles  and  heavy  double-cinch  saddles  on  their  arms. 
The  bridles  were  armed  with  cruel  Spanish  bits  which, 
under  the  pressure  of  a  weakest  hand,  would  break 
the  jaw  of  a  pony.  A  band  of  unbroken  mustangs, 
creatures  that  had  never  tasted  bit  nor  felt  the  strain 
ing  cinch,  were  driven  up  by  the  horse-hustlers. 

The  old  chief  judge  called:  " Maurice  Miguel!" 

At  the  word,  a  lithe,  springy  young  fellow,  legs 
bowed  like  compasses,  stepped  quickly  forth  with 
that  waddling  gait  which  professional  riders  affect. 
Throwing  his  saddle  on  the  ground,  he  unslung  his 
lariat.  Whirling  the  loop  about  his  head,  he  sent  it 
curling  for  the  fore  feet  of  a  vicious  clay  bank,  to 
which  the  judges  pointed.  The  pony  was  thrown 
and  blindfolded.  As  it  lay  sprawling,  one  Mexican 
secured  its  head  while  another  subdued  the  hind  legs. 
Bridle  and  saddle  were  fitted  to  the  pony  as  it  lay 
stretched — it  was  fairly  rolled  into  the  saddle — and 
eyes  still  bandaged,  it  was  then  allowed  to  scramble 
to  its  feet.  Once  there  it  stood  and  shivered,  over 
come  by  novel  and  alarming  sensations. 

The  dark  young  Mexican  was  in  the  saddle  like  a 
flash.  Picking  up  the  bridle-reins,  he  shoved  his 
feet  into  the  wooden  stirrups  as  deeply  as  heel  and 
instep  would  allow.  An  attendant  Mexican  whipped 
the  bandage  from  the  bronco's  eyes,  the  rider  drove 
his  spurs  into  its  flanks,  and  the  combat  between 
pony  and  man  began. 

It  was  the  merest  madness  of  tumult — a  whirlwind 
132 


THE    KNIFE    OF    DON    ANTON 

of  buck  and  pitch  and  toss.  Then  the  pony  suddenly 
turned  sullen,  like  a  balky. mule,  and  no  application 
of  bit  or  spur  or  quirt  would  budge  him.  At  the  end 
of  ten  minutes,  the  judges  ordered  the  rider  from  the 
saddle.  He  had  not  been  thrown,  but  his  failure  to 
move  the  pony  out  of  that  stolid  balk  was  marked 
against  him. 

Affairs  progressed  rapidly.  One  after  another  the 
ponies  were  roped,  thrown,  saddled  and  mounted. 
The  riders  had  varying  luck,  while  the  ponies  dis 
played  a  variety  of  antics,  not  to  say  tactics,  con 
tingent  in  each  instance  on  the  spirit  and  intelli 
gence  of  the  pony.  Some  sulked;  while  others  sun- 
fished  about — nose  down,  back  arched — hi  a  manner 
to  evoke  wildest  applause.  Now  and  again  the  rider 
was  thrown  or  jolted  off,  and  sent  rolling — clawing 
and  clutching  at  the  short  grass.  In  these  mishaps 
abode  the  comedy  element;  and,  although  one  broke 
his  collar  bone  and  another  his  arm,  while  all  were 
bruised,  the  spectators  failed  not  to  laugh  uproar 
iously.  The  discomfited  ones  arose  to  their  feet  with 
grins — some  sickly,  some  sincere — and  he  of  the 
broken  arm  even  made  it  a  point  to  laugh,  as  he  was 
supported  from  the  field. 

The  Professor  followed  him,  having  some  skill  in 
surgery,  thinking  to  be  of  use.  He  opened  his  eyes 
in  amazement,  almost  in  horror,  when  the  splintered 
arm  was  coolly  set  by  the  sufferer's  mates  of  the  cow- 
camps,  who  supported  their  unauthorized  splicings  by 
rude  splints  made  from  the  staves  of  a  flour  barrel, 
and  bandages  torn  from  a  blanket. 

"It's  all  right,  Professor,"  said  the  Red  Bull 
cheerfully.  The  outraged  Professor  had  expressed 

133 


THE    THROWBACK 

doubts  as  to  the  upcome  of  such  empiricism.  "It's 
all  right!  That  arm  will  emerge  from  those  barrel 
staves  as  straight  as  a  gun. " 

The  old  Mexican  who  served  as  chief  of  the  judges 
rode  up  to  the  Red  Bull,  his  face  wearing  a  shocked 
expression.  With  a  courtly  bow  he  began: 

"The  senor  sees  the  young  gringo,"  said  he, 
pointing  his  age-shaken  finger  at  Moonlight.  "He 
is  most  insulting!  He  declares  the  riding  a  farce, 
and  says  that  an  infant  could  have  conquered  the 
worst  among  the  ponies.  More,  senor,  ne  called  us 
sheep-herders!"  The  old  Mexican's  eyes  flashed  at 
the  outrage  of  such  an  epithet.  "Also,  he  demands 
that  he  be  allowed  to  compete." 

The  Red  Bull  looked  at  Don  Anton,  who  had  ap 
proached. 

"By  all  means!"  cried  Don  Anton.  "Give  him 
Sathanthus — the  mad  stallion  that  killed  Juan. 
It  may  be  that  Sathanthus  will  rid  us  of  this  fellow, 
and  make  the  errand  upon  which  I've  dispatched 
Pedro  of  the  Knife  a  bootless  one." 

"Tell  him,"  said  the  Red  Bull  to  the  old  Mexican, 
"that  he  shall  have  his  way.  Say  that  the  Cross-8 
men  will  be  glad  to  learn  horsemanship  from  so 
finished  a  rider." 

The  old  Mexican  bowed,  and  paced  soberly  back 
in  quest  of  the  insolent  Moonlight.  That  young  gen 
tleman,  mounted  on  President,  had  forced  his  way 
into  the  open  space,  the  patrolling  boundary  keepers 
not  caring  to  halt  him.  While  waiting  the  return  of 
the  old  Mexican,  he  killed  time  by  putting  President 
through  certain  astonishing  paces,  not  the  least  mar 
velous  being  to  dash  ahead  at  top-speed  and  then, 

134 


THE    KNIFE    OF    DON    ANTON 

without  checking,  wheel  squarely  about  and  dash 
the  other  way.  It  was  a  feat  that  required  the  seat  of 
a  centaur,  and,  for  President,  the  sure  foot  of  a  goat. 

The  personification  of  vanity,  Moonlight  rode  by  the 
Dona  Inez  and  Ethel  with  the  swiftness  of  a  thrown 
lance.  The  Dona  Inez  applauded,  while  Ethel's  eyes 
shone.  He  had  been  graceful  in  the  dance;  he  was 
tenfold  more  carelessly  graceful  in  the  saddle. 

The  Dona  Inez  whisked  off  the  handkerchief 
thrown  loosely  about  Ethel's  throat,  and  tossed  it 
on  the  grass.  As  he  flashed  by,  he  bent  from  the 
saddle,  swept  up  the  scrap  of  silk,  and  tied  it  about 
his  own  throat. 

Ethel's  face  burned  at  this  piece  of  assurance. 
How  dare  he  appropriate  her  handkerchief!  And  yet 
her  anger  did  not  seem  unbounded;  she  even  smiled 
in  a  shadowy  way.  Perhaps  he  believed  it  the  prop 
erty  of  the  Dona  Inez !  Strange  to  relate,  this  thought 
did  not  comfort  her.  He  had  done  wrong  in  thus  rid 
ing  away  with  her  property;  still,  having  done  so,  she 
preferred  that  he  understand  it  to  be  hers. 

Observing  the  old  Mexican  returning,  Moonlight 
turned  to  meet  him. 

"You  are,  by  favor  of  Don  Anton  and  Senor  Rug- 
gles,  to  compete,"  said  the  old  Mexican  sourly. 

Moonlight  cantered  down  to  where  Jeff  Home  and 
Red  River  Bill  were  standing  by  their  saddled  ponies. 
Throwing  himself  from  President,  he  fastened  that 
animal's  fore  fetlocks  together  with  his  rawhide  hob 
bles.  This  was  not  to  keep  President  from  straying 
away,  rather  it  was  to  prevent  him  from  making  his 
way  to  the  coming  scene  of  contest,  for  he  would  fol 
low  his  master  about  like  a  collie  dog.  Having  hob- 

135 


THE    THROWBACK 

bled  President,  he  stripped  off  saddle  and  bridle,  and 
returned  with  them  on  foot  to  the  trial  grounds. 

Red  River  Bill  followed  his  young  chief.  A  Mex 
ican  led  up  a  buckskin  stallion.  It  came  tamely 
enough;  but  the  eye,  like  a  coal  of  fire,  and  the  evil 
slant  to  the  ears,  showed  the  tameness  to  be  a  sham. 
The  buckskin  was  Sathanthus,  the  fiend  of  the  Cross-8, 
and  in  his  present  quietude  he  but  bided  his  vicious 
time.  He  had  killed  one  man,  he  hoped  to  get  a 
chance  to  kill  another;  for  Sathanthus  was  well- 
named,  being  a  born  devil  in  his  heart. 

Sathanthus  must  have  been  sorely  disturbed  by 
the  rough  rapidity  with  which  events  began  to  chase 
each  other  through  his  destinies.  Moonlight  had 
brought  his  lariat;  he  sent  the  loop  tangling  about 
the  ugly  buckskin's  feet.  Then,  planting  his  sharp 
boot-heels  deeply  in  the  sod,  he  sent  that  astonished 
animal  crashing  upon  his  side.  In  a  moment  Sathan 
thus  was  blindfolded,  bridled,  bitted,  saddled  and 
cinched;  and  next  the  confining  loop  about  the  fore 
feet  was  thrown  free. 

As  the  buckskin  struggled  to  his  enraged  feet,  still 
blindfolded,  he  was  made  aware  of  a  man  on  his  back. 
At  this,  his  wicked  heart  filled  up  for  murder.  He 
made  a  savage  snap  for  the  rider's  left  leg,  and  was 
caught  up  short  by  the  Spanish  bit. 

In  his  rage,  Sathanthus  threw  himself  over  back 
ward.  He  hoped  to  catch  and  crush  his  rider;  for  it 
was  thus  he  had  slain  Juan.  Moonlight,  more  active 
or  more  watchful,  was  out  of  the  saddle  and  safely 
on  his  feet  when  the  wrathful  Sathanthus  lay  rolling. 
A  sharp  jerk  at  the  bits  helped  him  to  realize  his  de 
feat,  and  brought  him  again  to  his  four  hoofs. 

136 


Threw  the  bridle  rein  on  Sat/iatitlnix'  neck,  and  rolled  <ind  lighted 
a  cigarette. 


THE    KNIFE    OF    DON    ANTON 

Instantly  Moonlight  was  back  in  the  stirrups  for  a 
second  time,  while  Sathanthus  stood  panting.  That 
fall  had  shaken  his  courage;  he  would  defer  further 
hostilities  until  the  bandage  was  removed  from  his 
wicked  red  eyes. 

Sathanthus,  blind,  feet  planted,  heart  on  fire,  stood 
like  a  statue.  Moonlight  held  up  two  silver  dollars 
before  those  looking  on.  He  placed  them  between 
his  knees  and  the  saddle-flaps — one  under  each  knee. 
Then  the  obscuring  bandage  was  whipped  off. 

Sathanthus  winked  and  blinked,  and  shook  his  sin 
ful  head.  A  stinging  cut  of  the  two-thonged  quirt, 
which  Moonlight  wore  looped  to  his  right  wrist,  and 
a  lancing  dig  of  the  spurs,  brought  him  to  his  senses. 
Following  one  wild  skyward  leap,  the  result  of  pain 
rather  than  design,  the  buckskin  devoted  himself  to 
unseating  his  enemy.  Once  were  he  to  have  him  on 
the  ground,  he  could  strike  with  his  fore  feet,  or  crush 
with  his  knees,  or  tear  with  his  teeth!  But  first  he 
must  hurl  him  from  the  saddle. 

Sathanthus  rushed  straight  forward  like  a  shot; 
then  he  stopped  dead,  as  though  he  had  met  a  stone 
wall.  Again  a  forward  plunge,  followed  by  a  plunge 
at  right  angles.  These  of  no  avail,  and  the  foe  still 
firm  in  the  saddle,  he  arched  his  back  like  a  gray- 
hound,  put  his  muzzle  between  his  knees,  and  broke 
into  a  stiff-legged  up  and  down  see-saw,  now  to  the 
right,  now  to  the  left — a  paroxysm  of  old-fashioned 
genuine,  heartfelt,  worm-fence  bucking.  Moonlight 
threw  the  bridle-reins  on  Sathanthus'  neck  and, 
searching  forth  a  cornhusk  wrapper,  rolled  and  lighted 
a  cigarette.  At  this  feat  the  onlookers  howled  their 
plaudits. 

137 


THE    THROWBACK 

When  Sathanthus,  exhausted  by  his  hard  work, 
began  to  falter,  Moonlight  cured  his  flagging  ener 
gies  with  quirt  and  spur.  This  treatment  broke  the 
hard,  wicked  heart  of  Sathanthus.  Head  drooping, 
flank  quivering,  shaking  in  knee  and  hock,  he  stood 
the  beaten  figure  of  defeat. 

Moonlight  leaped  from  the  saddle;  as  he  did  so  the 
two  silver  dollars  fell  clattering  to  the  ground.  At 
this  incontestable  evidence  of  the  sureness  of  his 
riding,  the  crowd  renewed  its  admiring  tumult.  With 
a  twist  of  the  wrist  he  stripped  bridle  and  saddle  from 
the  broken-hearted  mankiller,  and  gave  them  to  Red 
River  Bill. 

"He  did  not  kill  him!"  said  Don  Anton,  his  tones 
vibrant  of  disappointment. 

"No,"  returned  the  Red  Bull,  disgusted  rather 
than  disappointed,  "he  did  not  kill  him,  although 
there  were  moments  when  I  feared  he  would.  There 
has  never  been  such  riding  on  the  Canadian!" 

Don  Anton  and  his  father-in-law-to-be,  misunder 
stood  one  another;  the  former  had  hoped  for  the 
death  of  Moonlight,  while  the  Red  Bull  only  feared 
for  the  life  of  Sathanthus. 

"I  could  love  such  a  man!"  whispered  the  Dona 
Inez  to  Ethel. 

Ethel  shot  a  reproachful  look. 

"Have  no  fear,"  observed  the  Dona  Inez,  with  a 
teasing  shrug;  "I  give  you  my  promise  the  other  way. 
I  do  not  fancy  loving  where  I  should  not  be  loved." 

Moonlight  strolled  across  to  Don  Anton  and  the 
Red  Bull.  His  manner,  brusque,  supercilious,  was 
only  saved  from  being  impertinent  by  the  respect 
able  danger  that  dwelt  in  him.  For  that  same  reason 

138 


THE    KNIFE    OF   DON   ANTON 

of  danger,  while  it  escaped  being  impertinent,  it  was 
doubly  an  insult.  He  began  without  salutation. 

"The  judges/'  said  he,  addressing  the  Red  Bull, 
"have  given  the  riding  to  me.  I  shall  now  compete 
in  the  steer-tying;  and,  since  I  think  them  no  better 
at  the  roping  than  at  the  riding,  I  offer  a  handicap 
in  favor  of  your  Cross-8  bunglers.  Let  the  best 
among  them  tie  down  his  five  steers;  I  will  then 
tie  down  my  five  in  half  the  time,  or  lose.  I  think, 
Amigo,  I  shall  take  your  Chihuahua  saddle  back  with 
me  to  the  Palo  Duro." 

The  last  was  to  Don  Anton. 

"You  have  set  your  heart  on  that  saddle,  Senor 
Moonlight,"  returned  Don  Anton,  with  as  nearly  the 
ghost  of  a  sneer  as  he  cared  to  risk. 

"Not  for  myself;  I  would  not  disgrace  the  back  of 
my  pony  with  a  saddle  from  such  a  source.  No,  I 
shall  give  it  to  my  man,  Red  River.  He  takes  care 
of  my  cattle." 

"Cattle?"  repeated  the  Red  Bull,  pretending  sur 
prise.  "I  thought  you  a  robe-hunter.  I  did  not 
know  you  were  in  the  cattle  trade;  I've  never  heard 
of  you  in  our  Panhandle  round-ups." 

"Nor  are  you  likely  to,"  responded  Moonlight, 
giving  his  words  the  twist  of  sarcasm.  "I  am,  as 
you  surmised  a  robe  hunter;  in  the  cattle  trade,  as 
you  call  it,  by  accident,  and  merely  to  the  extent  of 
two  hundred  head.  Some  thieving  Mexicans  stole 
and  destroyed  two  hundred  of  my  robes,  and  I  took 
two  hundred  of  their  cattle" — here  he  looked  at  Don 
Anton  who  was  twisting  his  mustache — "to  pay 
for  them." 

The  Red  Bull  hastened  to  cut  short  a  conversation 
139 


THE    THROWBACK 

that  might  graduate  from  the  unpleasant  into  the  dis 
astrous. 

"I  am  glad  you  will  take  part  in  the  steer-tying/' 
he  said  politely.  "But,  poor  hands  as  the  Cross-8 
people  are,  the  contest  must  be  on  even  terms. " 

"I  do  not  see  your  pet  assassin,  Pedro  of  the 
Knife,"  observed  Moonlight,  again  turning  to  Don 
Anton.  "Have  you  sent  him  on  some  mission  of 
scalps?" 

"Why?"  returned  Don  Anton,  growing  a  trifle 
white.  "Would  you  like  to  see  my  Pedro  of  the 
Knife?" 

"I  should  like  better  to  see  you."  Then,  with 
a  sudden  cold  frown:  "You  wear  pistol  and  knife!" 

The  Red  Bull  took  Don  Anton  by  the  arm  and  led 
him  aside,  the  latter,  offering  no  mighty  resistance. 
Moonlight,  with  an  evil  smile  that  set  his  face  like  a 
threat,  wheeled  on  his  heel,  and  returned  to  where 
Jeff  Home  and  Red  River  Bill  had  completed  the 
saddling  and  bridling  of  President  for  the  roping. 

The  judges  ordained  that  Moonlight  should  begin 
the  steer-tying.  Ten  wild-eyed  longhorns  were  driven 
upon  the  field,  and  held  bunched  by  a  couple  of 
herders.  Moonlight  sat  in  the  saddle  one  hundred 
feet  away,  that  being  the  distance  allowed  the  steers 
at  the  start.  President,  on  whom  so  much  depended, 
was  ablaze  with  excitement;  he  knew  the  game  as 
thoroughly  as  any  looking  on. 

The  gray  chief  of  the  judges  gave  the  signal  to  be 
ready;  Moonlight,  rope  in  hand,  nodded. 

"Vamos!"  cried  the  old  judge. 

President  shot  forward  like  an  arrow;  the  herders 
drew  back,  and  the  steers  finding  all  free  broke  and 

140 


THE    KNIFE    OF   DON    ANTON 

ran.  President  was  instantly  upon  them!  Out  flew 
the  loop  of  the  lariat,  to  settle  about  the  spreading 
horns  of  the  hindmost  steer.  President  stopped  short, 
set  all  four  hoofs;  the  steer  ran  out  on  the  rope. 
President,  trained  to  the  work,  met  the  shock — braced 
and  leaning  against  it;  and  the  steer,  in  Panhandle 
parlance,  "  swapped  ends  with  itself."  It  struck  the 
grass  with  a  crash,  and  lay  stunned. 

In  a  twinkling,  Moonlight  was  on  the  ground. 
The  next  moment  he  had  pulled  a  fore  and  a  hind 
foot  of  the  prostrate  steer  together,  whipped  a  "tie" 
about  them,  and  fastened  it  with  three  turns  and  a 
knot,  President  meanwhile  pulling  on  the  taut  rope, 
as  a  reason  for  the  steer  lying  quietly  stretched. 

The  tie-down  made,  Moonlight  whistled,  and  Presi 
dent  ran  toward  him,  full  speed.  With  a  shake  of 
the  left  hand  Moonlight  freed  the  loop  from  the  steer's 
horns,  and  seizing  the  saddle-horn  with  the  right 
hand  as  President  shot  by,  swung  with  one  motion 
to  the  saddle.  Away  went  President  in  hot  pursuit 
of  the  flying  ones,  leaving  the  tied  victim  on  the 
ground.  And  the  time  of  that  first  tying  was  just 
twenty  seconds  by  a  stop-watch! 

As  President  tore  forward  after  the  little  band 
of  terrified  steers,  Moonlight  gathered  up  his  rope. 
Again  the  wide  loop  went  whirling;  again  it  settled 
over  the  flying  horns;  again  the  braced  feet  of  Presi 
dent;  again  the  shock  as  the  rope  tightened;  again 
the  stunning  crash  of  the  thrown  steer!  And  so 
the  work  of  roping,  throwing,  tying,  and  recovering 
went  forward.  As  Moonlight  arose  from  the  fifth 
steer,  and  held  up  his  hand  as  showing  his  labors 
done,  the  watch  marked  two  minutes  and  twenty-five 

141 


THE    THROWBACK 

seconds,  being  the  whole  time  consumed — an  average 
of  twenty-nine  seconds  to  a  steer. 

The  wonder-smitten  Mexicans  drew  a  long  breath; 
it  was  the  sharpest  roping  and  tying  they  had  ever 
witnessed.  Now  it  was  over,  they  looked  at  man 
and  pony,  and  piously  crossed  themselves;  they 
thought  it  witchcraft.  They  had,  too,  as  an  argu 
ment  for  their  theory  of  witchcraft,  that  the  quickest 
of  the  twelve  contestants  who  followed  was  five 
minutes  and  ten  seconds  in  tying  down  his  fifth 
steer.  To  the  chagrin  of  Don  Anton,  that  em 
bossed,  stamped-leather,  Chihuahua  saddle,  with  the 
bridle  that  kept  it  company,  became  parcel  of  the 
goods  and  chattels  of  Red  River  Bill. 

It  was  two  hours  later;  the  field  was  nearly  de 
serted.  Moonlight,  who  desired  word  with  that  esti 
mable  gambler,  had  lingered  for  a  talk  with  Frosty, 
before  spurring  finally  away  for  the  Palo  Duro.  Jeff 
Home  and  Red  River  Bill,  bearing  with  them  the 
Chihuahua  saddle,  had  already  departed. 

It  was  while  Moonlight  talked  with  Frosty  that  the 
unexpected  occurred.  It  came  in  the  guise  of  Don 
Anton,  who  was  seen  sauntering  toward  them  in  a 
matter-of-fact  way.  This  of  itself  was  enough  to 
arouse  suspicion. 

Moonlight  saw  him  coming  with  the  tail  of  his  eye, 
and  while  he  continued  to  converse  with  Frosty  he 
watched  Don  Anton.  For  all  that  gentleman  tried 
to  appear  at  ease,  the  young  rico's  face  was  troubled. 
Also  he  was  over-white,  for  rage  lay  at  his  heart's 
roots. 

"Have  you  said  good-bye  to  Senor  Moonlight?" 
the  Dofia  Inez  had  whispered.  "No?"  Then,  with 

142 


THE    KNIFE    OF    DON    ANTON 

manner  unmistakable:  "  You  are  negligent,  Don  An 
ton,  I  should  not  let  him  go  without  good-bye.  If 
you  do,  I  shall  not  care  to  see  you  again.  Who  would 
have  a  husband  so  grossly  impolite?" 

There  was  a  resolution  as  of  ice  in  the  steady  gaze 
of  Dona  Inez.  Don  Anton  must  redeem  himself  or 
his  hopes  of  her  were  lost.  It  did  not  suit  him  to  lose 
her.  Stung  by  her  air  as  much  as  by  her  words  he 
found  courage  to  go  in  quest  of  the  dangerous  Moon 
light.  At  that  he  owned  no  plan,  possessed  no  least 
inkling  of  what  should  be  his  course. 

Of  a  sudden,  when  Don  Anton  had  come  within 
talking  distance  of  the  hated  one,  he  was  flooded  of  a 
great  thought.  It  broke  upon  him  like  an  inspira 
tion;  his  way  stood  open.  He  might  yet  go  back 
to  the  Dona  Inez  with  the  redeeming  blood  of  Moon 
light  on  his  hands. 

As  nearly  as  he  could — and  he  was  no  mean  actor 
— Don  Anton  forced  his  tawny  features  to  a  pleasant 
expression. 

"Still  here,  Senor  Moonlight?"  he  said,  in  a  man 
ner  of  affable  surprise.  Moonlight's  gray  eyes  be 
came  jade  as  they  looked  squarely  into  the  shifty  rat- 
eyes  of  Don  Anton.  The  latter  talked  on  hurriedly; 
he  must  get  through,  or  his  nerve  would  fail  him. 
"There  is  something  I  should  say  to  you,  Senor  Moon 
light.  You  spoke  of  my  wearing  a  pistol.  I  did  not 
answer,  for  it  was  no  good  time.  Now  may  prove  a 
better.  But  before  I  reply,  I  should  like  to  see  you 
shoot.  You  are  not  afraid  to  let  me  see  you  shoot?" 
he  concluded  with  a  sneer. 

Moonlight  looked  through  and  through  him,  as 
though  searching  his  uttermost  corner  of  thought. 

143 


THE    THROWBACK 

Then,  apparently  satisfied,  he  took  his  rifle  from  its 
saddle-scabbard — it  being  part  of  the  furniture  of 
President,  now  when  he  stood  saddled  for  the  trail. 
The  weapon  was  a  heavy,  eight-square  single-shot 
Sharp's — a  fifty-caliber  buffalo  gun. 

Moonlight's  glances  roved  about  the  scene.  Two 
hundred  yards  away,  a  huge  raven  went  heavily 
flapping  down  the  wind.  He  brought  the  big  rifle  to 
his  shoulder.  There  was  a  moment's  pause  as  his  eye 
traced  the  sights.  Then  came  the  roar  of  the  gun. 
A  handful  of  black  feathers  floated  to  leeward,  while 
the  great  raven,  shot  through  and  through,  went 
plunging  downward  to  strike  the  grass  with  a  muffled 
thump. 

Don  Anton  licked  his  dry  lips  nervously. 

"Wonderful!"  he  cried.  "That  one  would  be  mad 
who  met  you  with  rifles!  And  are  you  as  sure  with 
the  pistol?" 

Still  without  word,  Moonlight  took  six  chips  from 
the  monte  paraphernalia  of  Frosty.  Riffling  the  ivory 
counters  between  thumb  and  finger,  he  flirted  them 
fifty  feet  in  the  air.  They  fell  apart  one  from  the 
other,  and  hung  for  a  moment  six  dull  blue  polka-dots, 
as  large  as  half-dollar  pieces,  against  the  brightness 
of  the  sky.  Like  a  flash  his  hand  sought  his  pistol. 
There  came  a  series  of  sharp  barking  reports,  so 
closely  set  together  that  each  seemed  blended  with 
the  one  that  went  before.  Five  of  the  blue  disks 
were  shattered;  the  sixth  fell  untouched. 

When  the  fusilade  began,  Don  Anton's  tremulous 
hand  began  to  creep  toward  his  own  weapon.  As 
the  last  shot  rang  out  he  had  half  drawn  it  from  the 
scabbard — murder  showing  in  his  black  eyes.  His 

144 


THE    KNIFE    OF    DON    ANTON 

plan  lay  all  bare  in  a  moment;  it  was  his  scheme  to 
empty  the  weapons  of  Moonlight.  Then,  when  the 
other  was  defenseless,  he  would  slay  him. 

It  was  a  brilliant  plan,  a  hopeful  plan;  but  it  failed. 
As  the  sixth  unshattered  chip  fell  to  the  ground, 
Moonlight  wheeled  on  Don  Anton,  the  somber  muzzle 
covering  his  fluttering  heart. 

Don  Anton  gasped  with  terror ;  that  sixth  cartridge, 
all  unexploded,  still  slept  in  its  proper  chamber. 
Would  this  inveterate  gray-eyed  one  slaughter  him 
where  he  stood!  His  life  was  forfeit  by  every  rule; 
his  pistol,  half  out  of  its  scabbard,  convicted  him! 

" Caught  with  the  goods!"  cried  Frosty. 

Moonlight  did  not  fire,  but  contented  himself  with 
covering  Don  Anton  with  the  muzzle  that  never 
missed.  It  was  a  moment  of  terror  for  the  latter;  he 
tasted  death  a  hundred  times. 

Moonlight  let  down  the  hammer  of  his  pistol,  and 
returned  it  to  his  belt. 

"Get  his  gun!"  he  said  to  Frosty. 

"Why  didn't  you  bump  him  off,  Captain?"  asked 
Frosty  in  an  injured  tone,  as  he  gathered  in  Don 
Anton's  pistol.  The  poisonous  little  rico  stood  trans 
fixed  with  fear,  offering  no  resistance.  "It's  plumb 
wrong!  You  ought  to  have  beefed  him!" 

"The  better  revenge  is  to  let  him  live.  He  will 
now  die  each  day  through  fear." 

Suddenly,  Don  Anton,  in  a  frenzy  of  fright  and 
rage,  plucked  his  knife  from  its  sheath,  the  care 
less  Frosty  had  overlooked  the  cutlery.  Like  some 
sinister  ray  of  light,  the  heavy  blade  came  glancing 
through  the  air!  It  whizzed  by  Moonlight's  cheek 
like  a  giant  hornet. 

145 


THE    THROWBACK 

Then  befell  a  miracle.  As  the  knife  flew  by, 
Moonlight  caught  it  by  the  buckhorn  haft.  In  one 
motion  he  sent  it  point-blank  at  Don  Anton  with  the 
vengeful  force  of  a  javelin.  It  was  done  in  so  brief 
a  space  that  Frosty  did  not  have  time  to  sing  cut. 
The  big  knife  buried  itself  to  the  guard  in  the  shrink 
ing  shoulder  of  Don  Anton.  He  plucked  at  it  spas 
modically;  then  with  a  shriek  he  sank  fainting  upon 
the  grass. 


146 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  MISSION  OF  PEDRO  OP  THE  KNIFE 

"GooD  shot!"  cried  Frosty,  in  high  approval.  "Only 
if  you'd  held  two  inches  higher  an'  a  lee  tie  more  to 
the  right,  it  would  have  been  a  better  one.  Then 
you'd  have  nailed  him  through  the  neck." 

Moonlight  snapped  a  fresh  cartridge  into  the  big 
Sharp's,  and  then  busied  himself  with  reloading  those 
five  empty  chambers  of  his  six-shooter. 

Two  Mexicans,  soberly  timid,  air  deprecatory,  and 
with  never  word  nor  look,  hurried  up.  They  bore 
Don  Anton  into  the  ranch-house;  the  latter,  face  the 
color  of  tobacco  ashes,  still  lay  in  a  stupor. 

Moonlight  mounted  President. 

"Which  you  don't  aim,"  remonstrated  Frosty,  "to 
go  challengin'  the  whole  Cross-8  outfit?  I  wouldn't 
do  it,  Captain;  some  of  them  greasers  inside  might 
pot  you." 

"There  are  no  windows,"  replied  Moonlight,  "and 
if  one  tried  a  shot  from  the  roof,  the  chances  are  I'd 
pot  him." 

Disregarding  the  cautious  Frosty's  counsel,  he  can 
tered  around  to  the  Cross-8  front  door.  The  Red  Bull 
came  out,  almost  obsequious  in  his  politeness.  His 
face  had  lost  something  of  its  normal  purple;  the  Red 
Bull  was  not  quite  so  red. 

147 


THE    THROWBACK 

"It  was  a  fair  exchange/'  said  he,  forcing  a  smile. 
Then,  as  though  to  settle  his  own  position  in  favor 
of  peace,  he  added:  "I  never  interfere  where  all 
is  fair." 

"No  one  cares  whether  you  interfere  or  no,"  re 
torted  Moonlight,  with  scant  courtesy.  "I  come  now 
to  leave  word  for  your  dog  of  a  would-be  son-in-law 
that  hereafter  I  shall  kill  him  on  sight.  He  and  his 
might  better  visit  me  on  the  Palo  Duro.  The  more, 
since  if  they  do  not  and  I  get  lonesome,  I  may  come 
hunting  their  company  on  the  Concha.  Tell  him 
that." 

Ethel  heard  first  of  that  thrown  knife  from  the 
Dona  Inez.  It  set  her  heart  a-flutter;  her  cheek  was 
stricken  cold.  The  Dona  Inez  only  readjusted  her 
reboza  in  a  satisfied  way. 

"I  am  glad  he  has  a  little  courage, "  said  she.  "At 
least  he  must  have  faced  this  Senor  Moonlight.  You, 
my  friend,  are  fortunate  in  loving  a  brave  man!" 

Ethel's  face  went  from  white  to  crimson. 

"How  can  you  say  that?  I've  never  exchanged  a 
word  with  him." 

The  black  eyes  of  the  Dona  Inez  sparkled. 

"That  will  come  soon  enough.  And  when  it  does 
you  must  beware.  What!  With  your  Robert  and 
this  knife-throwing  cavalier  both  in  love  with  you,  do 
you  think  there  will  be  no  clash?" 

Ethel  said  nothing;  she  felt  heart-convicted  of  a 
feeling  beyond  what  should  become  a  modest  maid 
toward  the  gray-eyed  overbearing  one.  Also,  he  had 
worn  away  her  handkerchief. 

With  face  a  trifle  hot  she  came  presently  upon 
Aunt  Tilda  and  the  Professor.  The  latter  had  just 

148 


MISSION  OF  PEDRO  OF  THE  KNIFE 

been  told  of  Don  Anton's  wounded  shoulder;  being 
extremely  tribal  in  his  instincts,  his  soul  took  sides 
with  Moonlight. 

"The  young  man  has  prodigious  spirit,"  quoth  the 
Professor,  voice  elate  and  brisk.  "His  hand,  too, 
must  be  deft  beyond  imagination,  to  thus  seize  and 
return  a  flying  knife!  Truly,  I  should  like  to  have 
witnessed  the  episode." 

Aunt  Tilda  scolded,  and  said  that  Professor  Dore- 
mus  was  drifting  into  savagery. 

Having  delivered  his  defiance  to  the  Red  Bull  who 
received  it  without  reply,  Moonlight  struck  south 
ward.  The  long,  swinging  stride  of  President  would 
soon  overtake  Jeff  Home  and  Red  River  Bill,  who 
were  to  pitch  camp  for  the  night  at  the  Hill  of  the 
Cross. 

Five  miles  had  been  covered,  and  Moonlight  was 
picking  his  way  at  a  walk  through  a  roughish  stretch 
of  trail.  As  he  reached  a  corner  of  the  canon  through 
which  the  trail  wound,  from  the  flat  ground  above, 
and  about  one  hundred  yards  ahead,  a  rifle  cracked. 
The  shot  had  been  well  aimed.  Moonlight,  after  an 
ineffectual  effort  to  retain  his  seat,  reeled  and  fell  from 
the  saddle.  He  lay  on  the  grass,  face  to  the  sky, 
hands  spread  wide.  President  reared  and  plunged, 
and  then  trotted  off  to  a  distance  of  twenty  feet.  He 
wheeled  to  look  at  his  master,  blowing  out  his  nostrils 
and  snorting. 

The  smoke  drifted  from  the  place  where  the  rifle 
was  fired,  and  above  the  edge  of  the  canon  peered 
Pedro  of  the  Knife.  A  look  of  satisfaction  over 
spread  his  lance-scarred  face,  as  he  beheld  his  victim 
lying  prone  and  nerveless.  With  a  cry  of  triumph, 

149 


THE    THROWBACK 

he  drew  his  knife  and  came  scrambling  down  the  side 
of  the  canon. 

"Don  Anton  will  want  his  scalp,"  he  muttered. 

Pedro  of  the  Knife  approached  the  prostrate 
Moonlight,  who  lay  with  set  eyes  and  fingers  clutched 
as  in  the  final  death-pang.  President  began  to  toss 
his  head,  and  made  as  though  to  fly.  Pedro  of  the 
Knife  was  half  Indian,  and  President  found  the  breeze 
poisoned  of  that  Indian  taint  so  alarming  to  a  white 
man's  horse. 

Pedro  of  the  Knife  paused  to  soothe  the  excited 
President  with  pacific  words;  he  did  not  want  to 
frighten  away  the  best  pony  in  the  Panhandle. 
The  scalp  should  be  Don  Anton's;  he  designed  Presi 
dent  for  himself.  The  pony  of  the  dreaded  Moonlight 
would  be  something  to  show  and  to  brag  of,  when 
back  in  the  plazas  on  the  Concha.  It  would  brighten 
the  eyes  of  the  sefioritas,  and  blacken  with  envy  the 
brows  of  the  men,  to  look  upon  President,  and  hear 
how  he,  Pedro  of  the  Knife,  had  won  him!  With  this 
thought,  he  maneuvered  until  the  uneasy  President, 
trotting  and  curveting  but  refusing  to  leave,  had 
taken  position  to  windward.  Missing  that  terrifying 
Indian  smell,  he  became  quiet,  and  looked  at  Pedro 
of  the  Knife  in  curious,  non-understanding  horse- 
fashion. 

Pedro  of  the  Knife,  being  reassured  as  to  the  rest 
less  President,  again  turned  to  his  labors  of  blood. 
Blade  in  hand  he  bent  above  the  prostrate  form.  An 
evil  smile  wreathed  his  lips,  for  he  liked  the  work. 

Suddenly  a  grip  of  steel  closed  upon  the  wrist 
of  Pedro  of  the  Knife.  There  was  a  twist,  a  sound 
of  bones  snapping,  and  the  knife  fell  from  his  useless 

150 


MISSION  OF  PEDRO  OF  THE  KNIFE 

fingers.  He  screamed  in  surprise  and  pain!  The 
scream  was  like  the  screech  of  a  wildcat  in  its  death 
agony.  Then  he  was  whirled  face  downward.  The 
next  moment  the  knee  of  Moonlight  was  pressed 
hard  between  his  shoulders. 

As  swiftly  as  he  had  tied  those  Cross-8  steers, 
Moonlight  took  the  soft  sash  from  about  his  middle, 
and  bound  the  elbows  of  Pedro  of  the  Knife  together 
behind  his  back.  That  the  right  arm  was  broken  in 
no  wise  touched  him  with  pity;  he  handled  the  help 
less  Pedro  without  ruth  or  mercy.  The  latter,  after 
that  first  screech,  lay  mute  as  a  fox;  his  Indian  blood 
did  that  much  for  him.  He  made  no  struggle;  the 
strength  of  his  conqueror  was  too  prodigious,  too  mon 
strous.  From  the  first  he  felt  himself  in  a  grasp  so 
over-mastering  that  resistance  was  preposterous.  It 
would  have  been  like  throwing  up  one's  arm  to  ward 
away  a  landslide. 

Moonlight  took  the  would-be  assassin's  pistol  from 
his  belt,  and  broke  it  across  a  bowlder.  He  splintered 
the  rifle  which  Pedro  of  the  Knife  had  brought  from 
his  ambush  on  the  hill.  Then  he  picked  up  the  bound 
Pedro's  knife  from  the  grass.  It  was  heavy,  with  a 
long  blade,  and  balanced  in  the  hand  like  a  hatchet. 
He  tried  the  edge;  its  razor-like  keenness  justified 
the  name  of  its  owner. 

"And  now,"  said  Moonlight,  relentless  as  granite, 
tones  cruelly  ferocious,  "  while  it  is  in  my  mind  to 
cut  your  throat,  it  is  in  my  mind  still  more  to  send 
you  back  to  your  master,  Don  Anton,  as  a  best 
method  of  showing  my  contempt  for  him  and  you 
and  every  other  dog  of  a  Mexican.  In  your  trade  of 
assassination,  however,  you  should  show  more  wit. 

151 


THE    THROWBACK 

Do  not  take  it  for  sure  that  a  man  is  dead  just  because 
he  falls  from  the  saddle.  It  may  be  that  he  but  does 
it  to  tempt  you  into  his  hands."  Then  followed  a 
pause  in  which  he  seemed  to  be  settling  life  and  death 
for  Pedro  of  the  Knife:  "Yes,  I  shall  send  you  back. 
But  first  let  me  give  you  a  new  name,  and  furnish  a 
red  baptism  and  the  reason  for  it. " 

There  was  a  flash  of  the  descending  blade,  and  the 
left  ear  of  Pedro  of  the  Knife  was  sheared  smoothly 
away. 

"  You  have  been  Pedro  of  the  Knife.  You  will  now 
be  Pedro  of  the  Ear." 

The  bleeding  Pedro  met  the  new  pain  without  a 
moan,  but  the  sweat-drops  mottled  his  skin. 

Moonlight  brought  up  the  pony  of  Pedro  of  the 
Knife,  from  the  blind  side-canon  where  it  had  stood, 
hobbled  and  hidden,  while  its  owner  lay  in  mur 
derous  wait.  He  tossed  the  pinioned  Pedro  into  the 
saddle,  as  lightly  and  as  carelessly  as  though  he  were 
a  sack  of  bran. 

Detaining  the  pony  by  the  bridle,  Moonlight  drove 
the  knife  deep  into  the  saddle-horn,  and  with  a 
sharp  twist  broke  the  brittle  blade  in  two.  Fitting 
the  two-inch  remnant  that  remained  with  the  knife- 
haft  into  its  proper  sheath,  he  next  replaced  in 
their  respective  scabbards  the  shattered  rifle  and 
pistol.  As  he  did  so  the  brand  on  the  pony's  shoul 
der  caught  his  eye.  It  was  "Cross-8." 

"Tell  the  Red  Bull  I'll  owe  him  one  for  that!" 
he  said,  pointing  to  the  brand.  "Now  you  may  go. 
Should  you  faint  before  you  reach  the  Cross-8,  the 
wolves  will  get  you;  wherefore  I  advise  you  to  keep 
both  your  head  and  your  seat." 

152 


MISSION  OF  PEDRO  OF  THE  KNIFE 

Moonlight  turned  the  pony's  nose  down  the  canon. 

"They'll  reach  the  Canadian  in  an  hour,"  he  rumi 
nated.  "The  pony  knows  the  way,  and  the  earless 
one  should  stay  in  the  saddle  that  space.  Still,  should 
he  roll  off,  it  will  mean  no  more  than  just  a  bad  mouth 
ful  or  two  for  the  coyotes." 

Moonlight  gave  his  whistle  and  President,  who 
seemed  relieved  in  a  ponyish  way  to  behold  his  mas 
ter  again  on  his  feet,  trotted  up.  Across  the  pommel 
of  the  saddle,  the  badly  directed  bullet  of  Pedro  of 
the  Knife  had  plowed  a  furrow  in  the  leather.  Moon 
light  shook  his  head  in  critical  disapproval. 

"It's  strange,"  mused  he,  as  he  fitted  his  foot  to 
the  stirrup,  "that  no  Mexican  is  ever  a  good 
shot." 

Jeff  Home  and  Red  River  Bill  were  sitting  down 
to  antelope  steaks  and  baking-powder  biscuit  when 
Moonlight  rode  up. 

"An'  at  that,"  said  Jeff,  "we  only  beat  you  by  half 
an  hour.  We  had  to  go  'round  to  the  cottonwoods 
an'  pick  up  our  old  camp." 

Red  River,  the  taciturn,  tendered  a  bake-kettle  full 
of  hot  biscuit.  They  were  of  his  own  construction, 
those  biscuit,  the  same  being  a  refreshment  for  which 
he  had  fame.  Biscuit,  like  gambling  and  dancing, 
were  among  Red  River's  weaknesses.  Tell  him  he 
was  a  great  roper  or  rider,  or  handled  a  six-shooter 
like  an  angel,  and  he  remained  glumly  indifferent. 
Mention  his  biscuit  for  their  light,  white,  superior  sort, 
and  he  straightway  shone  like  the  sun.  Also,  in  his 
gratitude,  he  would  give  you  anything  he  possessed. 
Moonlight,  who  believed  in  humoring  every  innocent 
foible,  spoke  in  warm  terms  of  the  biscuit.  Likewise 

153 


THE    THROWBACK 

of  the  antelope  steak  wherewith  the  attentive  Jeff 
loaded  his  tin  plate.    This  put  everybody  in  spirits. 

In  the  midst  of  the  feast,  Red  River's  glance  was 
caught  by  the  furrow  across  the  horn  of  Moonlight's 
saddle,  which  latter  lay  near  him  on  the  grass.  He 
came  to  a  dead  point  on  the  bullet  mark,  like  a  setter 
on  a  bird. 

" Pedro  of  the  Knife!"  explained  Moonlight  tersely. 
"He  bushwhacked  me  in  Mitchell's  Arroya." 

"Where's  his  h'ar?"    This  expectantly. 

Moonlight  shook  his  head  as  indicating  a  paucity  of 
Mexican  scalps.  At  this  sign  that  Pedro  of  the  Knife 
still  roamed  the  earth,  Red  River  was  on  his  feet  in 
a  moment,  his  face  working  cloudily  with  anticipated 
vengeance. 

"Which  I'll  nacherally  ride  back  to  the  Cross-8,"  he 
said. 

"  Stay  where  you  are, "  said  Moonlight.  Red  River 
slowly  resumed  his  place  by  the  camp  fire.  "  I  marked 
him,  and  sent  him  back  with  a  message  to  Don  Anton. 
You'll  find  his  ear  in  one  of  my  warbags." 

Red  River  drew  the  saddle  toward  him,  and  rum 
maging  in  the  bearskin  warbag  unpouched  the  grue 
some  token.  This  seemed  to  move  him  pleasantly; 
the  frown  cleared  from  his  face  in  a  measure,  and  was 
succeeded  by  a  look  of  partial  peace. 

"An'  yet,  Cap'n,"  he  said  wistfully,  "if  you  don't 
mind  none,  I'd  a  heap  sooner  had  his  skelp." 

At  this  Moonlight  laughed. 

"That  may  come  later,"  he  responded. 

There  were  cigarettes  and  silence  for  a  space.  It 
was  Moonlight  who  spoke;  stretching  himself  like 
some  panther  about  to  rest,  he  said  lazily: 

164 


MISSION  OF  PEDRO  OF  THE  KNIFE 

"I  want  to  get  an  early  start;  we  should  be  at  the 
Dove's  Nest  by  noon." 

The  Dove's  Nest  was  the  name  given  the  Palo  Duro 
home  of  Moonlight  by  the  romantic  Jeff. 

"Said  name  bein'  seelected,"  he  explained,  "as 
commem'rative  of  the  tranquillity  which  thar  pre 
vails — thar  bein'  no  ladies. " 


155 


CHAPTER  XII 
THE  PLOTTING  OF  ROBERT  AND  DON  ANTON 

FOUR  days  had  done  much  to  subdue  the  temper 
of  the  Canadian;  the  river  was  visibly  lower.  It 
doesn't  take  long  for  water  to  run  away  where  the 
country  slants  seaward  seven  feet  to  the  mile.  The 
current  was  no  longer  strong;  the  surface  no  longer 
tossed  and  billowed.  Robert  was  for  having  his  teams 
into  the  ford  at  once,  but  the  Red  Bull  stopped  him. 

"Wait!"  he  said,  "until  we  level  off  the  river  bot 
tom.  A  freshet,  such  as  we've  had,  leaves  it  rough 
beyond  description.  If  it  didn't  bog  down  your 
wagons,  it  would  upset  them." 

The  Cross-8  riders,  four  of  them,  brought  down  a 
band  of  three  hundred  ponies  from  the  wire  pasture. 
For  the  space  of  an  hour  the  ponies  were  crossed  and 
re-crossed  at  the  ford.  Splashing  and  dancing,  mane 
tossing,  eyes  flashing  with  the  sport  of  it,  the  wild 
mustangs  made  the  journey  back  and  forth  a  score  of 
times.  In  the  end  the  quicksand  bottom  was  beaten 
out  as  flat  and  as  hard  as  a  threshing  floor. 

The  two  mule-skinners  brought  up  the  wagons  and 
put  them  safely  over,  the  water  just  touching  the 
hubs.  Then  came  old  Cato  with  the  surrey,  and 
Ethel  on  Jet.  The  latter  took  to  the  water  like  a  New 
foundland,  for  the  Canadian  was  not  Jet's  first  ford. 
At  last  all  were  safely  on  the  north  bank,  and  off  for 

156 


THE    PLOTTING 

the  Bar-Z,  the  Red  Bull,  like  a  good  neighbor,  going 
with  them.  The  amiable  Red  Bull  went  to  show  the 
way;  besides,  those  three  serving  damsels  drafted  from 
the  Cross-8  required  convoy.  They  were  not  wholly 
in  favor  of  their  translation  to  the  Bar-Z,  and  the  Red 
Bull  feared  a  stampede.  All  went  safely,  and  the  sun 
was  an  hour  high  in  the  west  when  the  caravan  halted 
at  the  new  home. 

The  Bar-Z  was  made  up  of  a  half-dozen  adobe 
buildings,  including  a  camp-house  for  the  riders. 
The  ranch-building  proper  was  not  unlike  the  Cross-8 
structure,  only  smaller.  The  mud  fireplaces,  too, 
were  on  the  sides,  instead  of  in  the  corners  of  the 
rooms,  which  showed  that  an  American  had  planned 
it. 

"Here  you  are!"  quoth  the  Red  Bull,  waving  a 
bland  hand  by  way  of  inviting  admiring  attention  to 
the  arid  desolation  of  the  scene — "  here  you  are  in  the 
center  of  as  sweet  a  stretch  of  country  as  the  Pan 
handle  presents!" 

Aunt  Tilda,  to  whom  the  remark  was  more  particu 
larly  addressed,  made  no  response.  Her  heart  in 
truth  was  a  bit  heavy  as  she  compared  the  sand-blown 
waste  with  its  coarse  vegetation  to  the  rich  banks  of 
the  Chesapeake.  She  was  no  one  to  complain,  how 
ever;  so  she  smiled  back  at  the  enthusiastic  Red  Bull 
who,  after  seeing  the  family  installed  and  saying  a 
few  fierce  words  in  Spanish  to  the  three  conscript 
maid-servants,  rode  heavily  away  next  morning  for 
his  own  beloved  Cross-8. 

Aunt  Tilda,  now  when  she  went  upon  setting  the 
Bar-Z  to  rights,  found  the  Professor  invaluable.  He 
was  her  major  domo.  Also,  true  to  his  instincts  as  a 

157 


THE    THROWBACK 

teacher,  our  scientist  expounded  every  natural  mys 
tery  as  fast  as  it  arose.  Did  a  badger  sourly  survey 
Aunt  Tilda  from  its  burrow  in  a  hill  to  the  rear,  and 
alarm  her  with  its  striped  face,  the  wise  Professor 
made  all  clear. 

"A  solitary  animal,  my  dear  Madam!"  he  would 
say.  "And  absolutely  harmless  unless  seized  with 
the  hands."  Aunt  Tilda  had  no  thought  of  seizing 
badgers  with  her  hands.  The  Professor  ran  on. 

"It  is  a  fossorial,  plantigrade,  carnivorous  mammal 
of  the  family  mustetidce,  and  sub-family  melince." 

Following  which  the  excellent  Professor  would  de 
vote  himself  to  tacking  up  strips  of  calico,  to  serve  as 
wainscoting  for  the  mud-walled  rooms;  or  to  super 
intending  the  sloppy  energies  of  the  Cross-8  conscript 
maidens  as  they  whitewashed  the  building  inside  and 
out  with  native  gypsum  and  water,  which  they  applied 
with  a  sheepskin.  The  good  Professor  declared  that 
he  was  never  more  happy.  He  said  that  he  was 
charmed  with  the  Bar-Z,  the  Panhandle,  the  cattle 
business  and  whatever  thereunto  appertained.  It  is 
a  shrewd  guess,  however,  that  he  found  his  sunshine 
in  Aunt  Tilda,  and  would  have  thought  any  place  para 
dise  where  she  made  her  home. 

The  fourth  day  at  the  Bar-Z  was  rendered  lum 
inous  by  a  visit  from  the  Dona  Inez,  who  came  with 
an  armed  retinue  at  her  pony's  tail. 

"No,"  said  she,  explaining  her  escort  armed  to  the 
teeth,  "I  do  not  need  them;  but  I  take  them.  The 
Indians  are  at  peace,  yes;  but  who  knows!  An  In 
dian  is  uncertain." 

The  Dona  Inez  said  that  Don  Anton  kept  to  his 
room  with  the  slashed  shoulder. 

158 


THE    PLOTTING 

"He  makes  threats,  too,"  she  said  gayly.  "The 
knife  was  a  good  thing;  it  was  needed  to  arouse  his 
manhood.  I  begin  a  little  to  love  him." 

The  Dona  Inez  told  of  the  sash-bound  Pedro  of  the 
Knife. 

"When  he  came,"  she  exclaimed,  "from  his  broken 
arm  and  from  the  agony  of  his  ear,  he  fell  out  of  the 
saddle  as  though  dead.  Oh,  your  Senor  Moonlight" 
— to  Ethel — "is  a  terrible  adversary!  He  breaks 
arms,  and  crops  ears,  and  then  sends  his  victims  back 
with  a  mouth  full  of  insults." 

Aunt  Tilda  and  Ethel  were  shocked.  The  Dona 
Inez,  in  no  wise  affected,  went  forward  composedly. 

"Pedro  shot  at  him  from  ambush,  which  was  good; 
but  he  missed,  which  was  bad.  And  so  he  caught 
Pedro,  and  broke  his  arm,  and  cut  off  his  ear.  Then 
he  told  him  to  call  Don  Anton  a  dog.  But  it  will 
not  end  there;  Don  Anton  had  in  the  padre,  and 
took  a  vow  of  vengeance." 

"Of  vengeance!"  exclaimed  Ethel. 

"Why  not?    What  is  more  manly  than  revenge?" 

Robert  was  not  greatly  taken  up  by  the  cares  of 
the  Bar-Z.  That  was  well;  since  his  ignorance  would 
have  found  itself  helpless.  The  ranch  was  in  charge 
of  Mr.  Peacock,  manager,  and  a  quartette  of  cow 
boys,  who  were  so  much  an  improvement  over  those 
of  the  Cross-8  as  to  be  one  and  all  Americans.  They 
lived  by  themselves  in  the  camp-house,  a  solitary 
community  of  five,  and  transacted  their  own  house 
keeping. 

There  was  little  to  do  at  the  Bar-Z,  since  the 
Canadian  made  the  southern  boundary  of  its  range; 
and  as  the  cattle,  however  hard  might  blow  the  bliz- 

159 


THE    THROWBACK 

zard,  would  not  cross  so  wide  a  stream,  the  labor  of 
sign-camps  and  line-riding  disappeared.  At  brief  in 
tervals  the  riders  would  bunch  up  what  Bar-Z  cattle 
had  collected  at  the  river,  and  throw  them  back  on  the 
pastures  to  the  north.  The  two  hundred  head  of 
beef,  which  was  the  slender  output  of  the  Bar-Z,  had 
been  sold  and  sent  to  the  eastern  yards  the  month 
before. 

Having  nothing  to  occupy  him,  Robert  was  given 
fullest  opportunity  to  ponder  the  offensive  Moon 
light.  The  offensive  one  had  planted  fear  in  his 
heart;  and  because  he  feared  he  hated  him.  Be 
yond  that  fear  and  that  hatred,  however,  the  picture 
of  the  gray-eyed  one,  as  he  stood,  dangerous  and 
threatening  before  the  lodge  of  Ironjacket,  filled  him 
with  vague  uneasiness.  The  memory  rode  him  like  a 
nightmare. 

Robert,  aside  from  talents  of  stealth  and  a  native 
preference  for  creeping  upon  an  enemy,  was  not 
without  qualifications  that  belong  with  the  detective. 
His  memory  for  faces  was  photographic,  a  frequent 
ear-mark  of  timid  souls.  Robert  not  only  recalled 
the  gray-eyed  one  as  though  the  latter's  portrait  had 
been  etched  upon  his  memory,  but  he  was  ghost- 
haunted  by  the  feeling  that  the  face  was  not  new  to 
him. 

One  day — it  was  that  luminous  day  of  the  Dona 
Inez's  visit — a  thought  struck  him.  The  wonder 
and  the  terror  of  it  set  him  a- totter  on  his  feet. 
Recovering,  he  got  out  an  old-fashioned  album — chief 
among  the  dear  possessions  of  Aunt  Tilda.  Hurry 
ing  over  those  earlier  leaves  that  showed  the  Professor 
as  a  gay  youth,  the  elder  Alan  Gordon,  who  had  faced 

160 


THE   PLOTTING 

the  camera,  as  he  would  have  faced  an  enemy,  with 
a  most  portentous  scowl,  and  Aunt  Tilda  in  curls  and 
crinoline,  he  went  straight  to  the  picture  of  young 
Alan.  It  was  not  the  first  time  he  had  seen  the  pic 
ture.  Often,  since  the  death  of  old  Alan  Gordon,  he 
had  pored  upon  it  as  upon  the  face  of  a  rival.  He 
now  gazed  at  it  long  and  fixedly.  There  was  no  mis 
take;  the  sudden  thought  that  had  gripped  him  was 
right.  Taken  when  the  lad  Alan  was  no  older  than 
twelve,  it  was  none  the  less,  as  plain  as  ink  and  sun 
could  make  it,  the  picture  of  the  gray-eyed  Moonlight. 

Robert  drew  a  deep  apprehensive  breath.  That 
young  Alan,  whose  return  to  Somerset  would  rob  him 
of  the  Gordon  estate,  is  none  other  than  his  enemy! 
He  had  come  to  the  Panhandle  to  obviate  the  last 
possibility  of  his  discovery,  and  lo!  he  blunders  upon 
him!  Captain  Moonlight — Old  Tom  Moonlight — are 
but  aliases!  The  gray-eyed  one  is  Alan,  heir  to  old 
Alan  Gordon,  and  Robert's  cousin !  What  if  he  should 
learn  of  the  death  of  his  father,  and  the  fortune  which 
waits  for  him  to  claim  it?  What  if  his  identity  were 
to  become  known  to  Aunt  Tilda?  The  dread  surmise 
shakes  the  album  in  Robert's  hands.  And  yet  what 
is  more  certain? — certain  to  the  point  inevitable! 
Soon  or  late,  with  no  more  than  two  days'  ride  be 
tween  them,  the  fact  must  out.  The  gray-eyed  one 
himself  will  guess  the  relationship  between  them  so 
soon  as  he  hears  Aunt  Tilda's  name,  and  is  told  that 
she  has  come  from  old  Somerset! 

Robert  thanked  his  stars  for  the  feud  and  the  en 
mity  that  had  broken  out  between  them,  and  served 
to  keep  the  Professor  and  Aunt  Tilda  from  any  ac 
quaintance  with  the  gray-eyed  one. 

161 


THE    THROWBACK 

"Two  minutes'  talk,"  thought  Robert," with  that 
gossip-mongering  Professor,  and  he  would  have  learned 
all,  even  if  he'd  failed  to  guess  it  on  hearing  our  names." 

Robert  knit  his  brows  over  the  formulation  of  a 
plan.  His  avarice  had  no  intention  of  letting  the 
Gordon  fortune  slip  through  his  fingers,  without 
making  an  effort  to  clutch  and  hold  it  fast. 

He  began  by  slipping  the  picture  of  young  Alan  out 
of  the  album.  His  first  impulse  was  to  destroy  it. 
The  day  was  cool,  and  a  cedar  fire  blazed  in  the  mud 
fireplace.  For  one  moment  he  thought  of  burning  it. 
Then  he  changed  his  mind,  and  put  the  picture  in  his 
pocket. 

As  he  did  so,  Ethel  came  into  the  room.  Robert 
closed  the  album  and  laid  it  unobserved  upon  the 
table. 

"The  Dona  Inez  will  only  stay  one  day,"  said 
Ethel.  "She  wants  me  to  return  with  her  to  her 
home.  Aunt  Tilda  says  that  if  I  can  prevail  on 
the  Professor  to  go  with  us,  I  may  accept  the  invita 
tion." 

Instantly,  a  new  idea  struck  Robert.  Don  Anton 
was  as  much  the  foe  of  the  gray-eyed  Alan  as  him 
self.  Why  not  make  an  ally  of  the  young  ricof 

"The  Cross-8?"  said  Robert,  replying  to  Ethel.  "I, 
myself,  shall  go  with  you." 

"We'll  take  the  Professor,  too,"  said  Ethel. 

Since  the  Dona  Inez  had  spoken  so  surely  of  Rob 
ert's  love,  Ethel  had  begun  to  avoid  him.  And  at 
that  she  did  not  altogether  believe  the  Dona  Inez,  for 
she,  herself,  had  never  been  given  any  hint  of  it.  Still 
she  shrunk  from  the  lonesome  twenty  miles  return 
ride  in  his  company. 

162 


THE   PLOTTING 

Robert  did  not  want  the  Professor.  He  might  be 
in  the  way  when  he  got  to  Don  Anton.  Whatever 
was  resolved  upon  between  himself  and  the  young 
rico  must  be  kept  hidden  from  Ethel  and  Aunt  Tilda. 
It  would  be  better  to  leave  the  talkative  Professor  at 
the  Bar-Z.  Besides  the  backward,  bashful  love  of 
Robert  kept  cheering  itself  with  the  hope  that  it 
might  one  day  be  brave  enough  to  speak.  That  day 
of  courage  might  come  on  this  very  visit  to  the 
Cross-8.  It  made  another  reason  for  the  Professor 
remaining  behind. 

"Why  drag  the  Professor  along?"  said  Robert. 
"Besides  Aunt  Tilda  needs  him  here." 

"No;" — and  Ethel  shook  her  pretty  head  with  de 
cision — "she  says  that  now  the  calico  is  tacked  up, 
and  that  awful  whitewashing  over,  she  can  do  without 
him." 

When  Aunt  Tilda  was  sounded,  she  amplified  the 
statement  of  Ethel.  She  said  she  could  do  without  all 
of  them.  Having  brought  her  house-settling  down  to 
what  might  be  called  the  finer  touches,  Aunt  Tilda 
for  a  day  or  two  would  prefer  the  field  to  herself. 

"But  how  about  your  return?"  said  Aunt  Tilda, 
dubiously.  "I'm  afraid  of  Indians." 

The  Dona  Inez  interfered;  they  should  have  her 
armed  guard.  The  armed  guard  had  nothing  to  do 
in  life  but  travel  up  and  down,  a  menace  to  trustless 
savages. 

The  Professor  cared  nothing  for  the  "armed  guard, " 
but  Robert  felt  relieved.  He  shared  Aunt  Tilda's  ap 
prehensions.  For  the  heart  of  Robert  was  a  hare's 
heart,  and  his  tremulous  courage  the  courage  of  an 
antelope.  It  was  settled;  the  trio  should  return  to  the 

163 


THE    THROWBACK 

Cross-8  with  the  Dona  Inez,  and  the  "armed guard" 
should  protect  their  journey  back. 

The  twenty-mile  run  from  the  Bar-Z  to  the  Cross-8, 
with  the  splash  through  the  Canadian  at  the  finish, 
made  the  delightful  scramble  of  an  afternoon.  The 
Professor  and  Robert  had  mounted  themselves  from 
the  Bar-Z  livestock,  the  latter  on  a  pony,  the  Profes 
sor  on  a  mule  chosen  for  its  air  of  wisdom.  At  one 
crisis,  as  a  plover  flew  up,  the  Professor  halted  his  long- 
eared  charger  to  descant  on  that  species  of  fowl.  No 
one  stayed  to  listen. 

"It  is  of  the  family  charadriidce."  His  audience 
getting  further  and  further  away,  he  raised  his  voice : 
"Its  eggs  are  piriform  in  shape — drab — heavily 
blotched  with  brown!"  Robert  who  was  nearest  was 
now  one  hundred  yards  off.  The  Professor,  in  his 
passion  to  disseminate  learning,  began  to  shout.  "It 
is  distinguished  by  its  axillars,  which  are  ashen  gray." 

The  Professor  was  quite  alone  now,  since  both  his 
companions  and  the  plover  had  left  him  far  behind. 
Perceiving  which,  and  the  lecture  being  ended,  he 
stirred  up  Socrates — for  so  he  had  named  the  mule 
— and  came  powdering  along  in  pursuit. 

Robert  was  much  closeted  with  Don  Anton,  during 
the  stay  at  the  Cross-8;  he  and  that  bilious  young 
grandee — his  shoulder  in  double  bandages — had  much 
to  say  to  one  another.  The  Professor,  for  company, 
was  driven  to  vibrate  between  the  Red  Bull  and  Cato, 
the  latter  having  attended  the  party  with  the  surrey 
in  the  role  of  baggage-master.  Aunt  Tilda  had  also 
commissioned  him  to  look  after  the  sartorial  welfare 
of  the  Professor;  for  old  Cato's  genius  was  many  sided, 
and  ran  all  the  way  from  coachman  to  valet. 

164 


THE    PLOTTING 

The  Professor,  strolling  about,  found  Cato  busy 
with  curry-comb  and  brush,  putting  a  bottle-gloss  on 
Socrates.  There  was  a  sympathetic  tenderness  as  he 
rubbed  the  mule's  sleek,  mouse-colored  coat. 

" Socrates  is  a  noble  animal!"  ejaculated  the  Pro 
fessor,  pausing  to  consider  the  long-eared  one. 

"You  doan't  nevah  want  to  praise  your  own  mule 
or  your  own  whiskey,  Professah,"  said  Cato,  still 
busy  with  comb  and  brush. 

"And  why  not?" 

"Kase,  if  you-all  do,  dar'll  allers  come  folks  aroun' 
to  steal  d'  one  or  borry  d'  yuther,  shore!" 

"But  you  seem  to  like  Socrates,  Cato,"  said  the 
Professor. 

"Yassir,  I  love  him.  He  jes'  nacherally  kicks 
d'  daylight  outen  one  of  dem  Mexicans  a  minute  ago. " 

The  Professor  was  contemplating  the  deep,  thought 
ful  eye  of  Socrates,  and  Cato's  reason  for  loving  him 
missed  fire. 

"He  is  a  magnificent  beast,"  said  the  Professor,  at 
last,  "or  I  know  nothing  of  quadrupeds." 

"He's  shore  a  dead  shot,"  said  Cato  approvingly, 
"with  that  off  hind  hoof.  He  plants  it  on  d'  buckle 
of  dat  Mexican's  belt  as  plumb  center  as  you  could 
put  your  finger." 

"Did  Socrates  hurt  the  man?"  asked  the  Pro 
fessor,  rousing  to  the  tenor  of  Cato's  remarks. 

"  Sho,  Professah ! ' '  returned  Cato  disgustedly ;  "you- 
all  cain't  hurt  a  Mexican.  He  ain't  got  sense  enough." 

"Speaking  of  Mexicans,"  observed  the  Professor, 
who  was  fond  of  collecting  the  wisdom  of  Cato,  "the 
young  Don  Anton,  with  whom  Robert  is  so  suddenly 
taken,  seems  a  fine  fellow."  ' 

165 


THE    THROWBACK 

"I  dunno,  I  dunno,  Professah!  Of  co'se,  if  young 
Marse  Robert  like  him,  I  reckon  dar's  some  reason 
for  it.  But  I  dunno." 

"What  do  you  mean  with  your  eternal  'dunno'?" 

"Well,  Professah,"  and  Cato  looked  up  quizzically, 
"you  knows  d'  niggahs  has  a  sayin'  that  you  can't 
tell  nuthin'  about  a  man  by  d'  way  he  looks  on  Sun 
day.  Now  I  sort  o'  allows  that  dis  yere  Don  Anton, 
seein'  as  he's  done  come  to  d'  Cross-8  co'tin'  his  gal, 
has  got  on  his  Sunday  bes'.  So,  speakin'  of  d'  kin'  of 
man  he  is,  I  says,  says  I,  I  dunno." 

Don  Anton  and  Robert  had  a  final  talk  the  morn 
ing  that  the  Professor  and  his  party,  guarded  by  the 
"armed  guard,"  who  looked  upon  a  close  inspection 
not  a  little  like  Falstaff's  soldiery  done  in  Mexican, 
started  back  for  the  Bar-Z. 

"Then  we  understand  one  another,"  said  Robert. 
The  two  stood  alone  outside  the  ranch-house.  "I 
shall  go  to  Austin  at  once,  and  take  out  a  patent  to 
the  land.  Once  the  title  is  in  me,  I'll  sue  out  the 
writ  and  bring  it  back  to  serve  on  him  here." 

"  Exactly ! "  cried  Don  Anton.  "  Bring  the  writ,  and 
I'll  have  Pedro  of  the  Knife  play  sheriff.  His  arm 
will  be  well,  but  his  ear  will  still  smart!  Ah,  yes,  the 
earless  Pedro  of  the  Knife  will  like  to  serve  that  writ! 
He  shall  have  with  him  a  force;  we'll  make  it  an  oc 
casion  for  wiping  this  gringo  out." 

"What  force  will  you  get?    Your  Mexicans?" 

"Yes:  only  I  shall  send  with  them  a  handful  of 
Kiowas.  They  will  do  the  work  as  I  want  it  done; 
my  Mexicans  might  fail.  You  need  not  fear!"  con 
tinued  Don  Anton.  He  noticed  Robert's  lip  twitch, 
and  his  shifty  eyes  begin  to  rove  as  though  the  pros- 

166 


THE   PLOTTING 

pect  frightened  him.  "You  need  not  fear!  Your 
title  to  the  land  will  protect  you.  If  the  people  whom 
you  send  to  get  possession  overstep  their  instructions 
and  blood  be  shed,  what  then?  That  is  not  your  fault. 
The  state  must  seek  the  murderers  among  the  Kio- 
was." 

"Will  they  kill  him?"  asked  Robert,  a  little  husk 
ily.  He  desired  death  for  the  gray-eyed  one;  but 
the  bald  thought  of  it  when  set  face  to  face  with  him, 
was  calculated  to  stagger.  "And  you  think  they'll 
kill  him?"  he  repeated  mistily. 

"Kill  him!"  and  the  young  rico  gritted  out  the 
words,  while  his  black  eyes  sparkled.  "They  will  kill 
him  throughout  a  whole  day — those  Kiowas!  It  was 
he  who  slew  Sun  Boy,  who  was  of  this  very  band. 
Kill  him!  They  will  torture  him!  Which"— he 
patted  the  bandaged  shoulder  tenderly — "is  what  my 
vengeance  craves!" 


167 


CHAPTER  XIII 

ROBERT'S  TONGUE-TIED  LOVE 

THE  Dona  Inez  rode  with  the  Bar-Z  party  to  the  ford. 
Don  Anton,  in  a  gush  of  unusual  condescension,  would 
have  done  the  same,  but  his  knife-wounded  shoulder 
declared  against  the  rough  motion  of  a  mustang.  As 
they  neared  the  river,  the  Dona  Inez  drew  up  for  one 
moment  by  the  side  of  Robert. 

"So  you  and  Don  Anton  have  pooled  your  hates," 
she  whispered.  "Has  neither  the  courage  to  follow 
his  foe  alone?  And  yet  you,  as  well  as  he,  expect  the 
love  of  a  woman!" 

Robert  was  somewhat  taken  aback.  He  cast  a 
frightened  glance  at  the  hectoring  Dona  Inez.  Her 
remarks,  aside  from  the  soreness  of  the  taunts,  struck 
him  the  more  nervously  since  they  fell  at  a  moment 
when  he  had  Ethel  most  upon  his  slope  of  thought. 
He  could  manage  no  reply.  His  dullness  was  of  the 
less  consequence,  however,  for  the  sprightly  Dona 
Inez,  having  fired  her  shaft  of  sarcasm,  spurred  for 
ward  without  waiting  for  his  return. 

Robert  rode  back  to  the  Bar-Z,  vibrating  like  a  pen 
dulum  between  hate  and  love — thoughts  of  the  gray- 
eyed  one  and  thoughts  of  Ethel.  More  than  once  he 
resolved  to  show  Ethel  his  heart;  but  each  time  when 
he  would  have  made  the  attempt  the  words  refused 

168 


ROBERT'S    TONGUE-TIED   LOVE 

to  come.  He  would  lag  in  the  rear  alone  to  collect 
himself.  Then  when,  as  he  imagined,  he  had  suc 
ceeded,  he  would  press  forward  with  the  full  purpose 
of  plunging,  sink  or  swim,  into  that  momentous  dec 
laration.  But  his  heart  would  thump,  his  throat  turn 
dry  and  harsh,  while  his  cheek  was  ice  one  moment 
and  fire  the  next.  Do  all  he  might  he  could  make  no 
start. 

This  dumbness,  not  to  say  numbness,  was  not  all 
Robert's  fault.  Ethel  herself  was  so  far  telepathic 
as  to  half-way  read  his  thought.  Of  late,  and  particu 
larly  since  the  raillery  of  the  unconventional  Dona 
Inez,  she  had  bestowed  upon  him  a  closer  and  more 
interested  attention.  Not  that  she  had  any  love  to 
give  hirn;  but  what  woman  is  without  a  careful  curios 
ity,  when  the  impression  begins  to  gather  that  she 
herself  is  loved? 

Not  since  the  days  of  Eve  has  any  woman  shrunk 
from  being  loved.  Nor  are  women  without  a  pretty 
cruelty  in  coils  of  this  blushing  sort.  They  are  like 
your  dishonest  trader,  willing  to  receive  without  mak 
ing  any  return.  For  one  thing,  they  like  flattery;  and 
love  is  the  soul  of  flattery. 

Ethel  was  in  warmest  truth  a  woman.  Therefore 
she  scanned  Robert's  face,  as  sailors  scan  the  sky,  to 
discover  what  storms  or  calms  of  sentiment  his  bosom 
caged.  Even  to  her  untaught  inexperience  the  verity 
of  those  half  merry,  half  earnest  jestings  of  the  Dona 
Inez  began  to  be  revealed.  She  had  never  observed 
it  before;  but  then  she  was  young,  and  moreover,  she 
had  never  before  searched  for  it. 

Love  is  as  difficult  to  hide  as  smoke ;  and  that  Rob 
ert  had  not  betrayed  himself  sooner,  not  only  to  Ethel 

169 


THE    THROWBACK 

but  to  Aunt  Tilda  and  the  Professor,  speaks  tomes  in 
favor  of  his  genius  for  concealment.  For  all  that 
Ethel's  eyes  were  being  opened  to  it.  And,  being 
opened,  she  found  his  love  amusing  rather  than  alarm 
ing,  and  in  its  way  a  compliment.  However,  since 
she  had  no  mind  to  have  him  go  beyond  the  stage  of 
compliment,  she  now  began  to  put  obstacles  in  his  way. 
It  was  a  kind  of  pleasant  sport  at  that.  To  avoid 
Robert's  avowal  of  a  heart  made  desolate  with  love 
for  her,  Ethel  held  Jet  close  by  the  sedate  side  of  Soc 
rates,  and  kept  up  a  never-flagging  talk  with  the  Pro 
fessor. 

The  latter  savant  was  amazed,  delighted!  The  fair 
Ethel  had  never  before  exhibited  such  a  thirst  for 
exact  information.  Commonly,  she  fled  like  quick 
silver  from  his  disquisitions;  or,  when  flight  would 
have  been  impolite,  listened  with  an  absent,  ennuied 
air  as  though  her  wits  were  far  away.  Now  she  was 
all  eagerness;  a  ceaseless  rivulet  of  inquiry  rippled 
from  her  rosebud  lips. 

The  Professor  was  put  upon  his  mettle.  At  her  ex 
cited  request,  he  explained  a  prairie  dog  that  squeaked 
at  them,  as  a  "  Sciuromorphic  rodent,  genus  Cynomys, 
species  Ludovicianus,"  and  next,  being  exhaustively 
probed  as  to  those  vegetables,  flourished  with  equally 
long  unearthly  Latin  terms  concerning  the  cactus  and 
the  Spanish  bayonet.  It  was  a  field  day  for  the  Pro 
fessor,  who  rode  into  the  Bar-Z  radiant,  and  took 
prompt  occasion  to  inform  Aunt  Tilda  of  Ethel's  pre 
ternatural  appetite  for  learning. 

" Believe  me,  my  dear  Madam,"  he  said,  "she  will 
one  day  eclipse  Voltaire's  Emilie,  who  spoke  Latin 
and  Greek,  as  well  as  every  modern  tongue,  and  was 

170 


ROBERT'S    TONGUE-TIED   LOVE 

besides  the  only  soul  in  Europe  who  understood  New 
ton.  When,  however,"  added  the  Professor  defen 
sively — "when,  however,  I  speak  of  eclipsing  Vol 
taire's  Emilie  I  would  be  understood  as  meaning  only 
in  erudition;  for  in  certain  social  respects  the  lady 
alluded  to  was  not  I  fear  a  happy  example.'7 

If  Ethel's  sudden  hunger  for  scientific  knowledge 
pleased  the  Professor,  the  story  ran  the  other  way 
with  Robert.  And  yet,  if  that  had  been  all,  he 
would  have  invented  some  method  of  making  her 
hear  his  love.  But  there  arose  another  and  even  more 
baffling  reason  why  he  could  not  speak.  This  latter, 
when  it  broke  upon  him,  surprised  him  vastly;  the 
more  since,  while  it  seemed  wholly  within  himself,  he 
had  had  no  hint  of  its  existence. 

It  is  a  singular  truth  that  a  man  may  become 
so  well  acquainted  with  a  woman,  or  she  with  him, 
as  to  put  him  in  peril  of  being  laughed  at  should 
he  turn  passionately  tender  toward  her.  The  man 
and  woman  who  were  strangers  yesterday  may  burn 
with  mutual  love.  They  may  feel  it,  tell  it,  believe 
it,  and  yet  be  unembarrassed.  Their  hearts  put  away 
bashfulness;  their  sighs  brim  to  lips  that  know  no 
hesitation  and  overflow  unchecked!  All  is  natural, 
and  beautifully  fearless! 

The  unhappy  opposite  of  this  freedom  and  unre 
straint  exists  to  render  mute  the  pair  who  have  been 
reared  together  from  their  cradle  days,  and  grown  up 
side  by  side.  They  can  talk  and  tell  one  another  of 
everything  but  love ;  they  can  be  to  each  other  every 
thing  save  lovers.  There  is  a  quieter  intimacy,  an 
intimacy  as  it  were  of  brother  and  sister,  that  has 
come  between  them  to  reject,  with  a  kind  of  shame, 

171 


THE    THROWBACK 

the  nearer  intimacy  of  man  and  wife.  That  quieter, 
cooler  intimacy  has  produced  a  paradox,  and  when 
the  question  makes  toward  orange  blooms  and  wed 
ding  bells  they  are  held  at  bay  by  the  dampening  dis 
covery  that  they  know  each  other  too  well. 

Robert  felt  this  element  of  separation  rise  up  like 
a  wall  between  himself  and  Ethel.  They  had  abode 
beneath  the  same  roof  since  their  earliest  years;  and 
now  that  fraternal  closeness  asserted  itself  to  paralyze 
expression  of  a  warmer  love.  As  has  been  said,  the 
knowledge  was  new  to  him;  but  its  newness  made  it 
none  the  less  a  check. 

The  discovery  astounded,  while  it  dismayed  him 
— coming  like  some  hateful  dawn  to  dissipate  a  dear 
est  dream.  For  months  he  had  held  before  him  the 
thought  of  one  day  telling  his  love  to  Ethel;  now, 
when  the  occasion  and  the  will  were  his,  he  found  him 
self  in  fetters  unsuspected.  He  was  the  more  fretted, 
the  more  angrily  impatient  with  himself,  since  those 
fetters  that  restrained  him  appeared  as  fetters  forged 
of  his  own  bashfulness. 

Time  and  again  Robert  called  up  all  his  resolution. 
He  bound  himself  and  made  a  vow  to  speak.  He 
would  trample  that  bashfulness  beneath  his  feet!  He 
would  forget  himself — forget  Ethel — forget  every 
thing  but  his  love!  Now  surely  he  could  speak. 

These  doughty  decisions,  made  and  unmade  a  score 
of  times,  were  one  and  all  in  vain.  Those  binding 
resolutions  refused  to  bind,  and  proved  themselves 
but  ropes  of  sand  that  fell  away  as  fast  as  they 
were  formed.  At  last,  reluctant,  shame-faced,  silent, 
inwardly  raging,  he  fell  back  self-defeated.  He  could 
not  talk  of  love  to  Ethel.  He  had  fought  a  battle 

172 


ROBERT'S    TONGUE-TIED   LOVE 

with  his  own  nature;  he  had  been  worsted,  and  his 
defeat  showed  in  the  troubled  glance,  and  the  red 
shadow  that  sat  upon  his  brow. 

These  signs  and  signal  smokes  of  baffled  sentiment 
went  not  unnoted  by  the  sly  Ethel.  As  she  plied  the 
Professor  with  queries  calculated  to  unlock  his  elo 
quence,  she  gave  Robert  slantwise  looks,  and  so  got 
ever  a  glimmering  guess  of  the  progress — or  rather  the 
lack  of  it — he  was  making.  Even  the  rapt  Professor 
might  have  been  given  some  picture  of  the  business, 
had  he  not  been  so  swept  away  on  the  profound  tides 
of  his  own  learned  settings  forth  of  what  natural  mar 
vels,  botanical  and  zoological,  fell  in  their  path.  At 
last  the  Bar-Z  was  reached,  with  Robert's  love  un 
said. 

Ethel,  being  home,  breathed  freer.  Not  that  she 
had  been  troubled  or  oppressed,  or  indeed  had  found 
her  late  experience  other  than  an  exhilarating  albeit 
novel  form  of  hide  and  seek.  Still,  her  soul  was  easier. 
She  could  now  lay  aside  the  Professor  for  Aunt  Tilda. 
The  latter  would  be  a  pleasanter  refuge,  a  more  agree 
able  defense;  for,  however  admirable  she  found  the 
Professor  as  a  shield,  his  wisdom  had  begun  to  pall 
upon  her. 

It  was  the  next  day  when  Robert  announced  for  the 
first  time  the  necessity  of  his  going  to  Austin.  He 
gave  divers  reasons,  and  was  at  considerable  care  to 
make  them  foggy  and  deep.  They  were  all  business 
reasons,  and  all  false;  he  never  for  a  moment  hinted 
at  his  secret  purpose  of  buying  the  title  to  that  coveted 
tract  on  the  Palo  Duro. 

Aunt  Tilda,  who  loved  Robert  with  a  mother's  love, 
was  worried.  Austin  lay  hundreds  of  miles  away. 

173 


THE    THROWBACK 

The  difficult  journey  must  be  made  by  stage-coach. 
There  were  road  agents — bank-full  rivers — Aunt  Tilda 
saw  countless  lions  in  the  way. 

" Can't  you  do  your  business  by  letter?"  she  asked. 

Robert  explained  that  it  was  impossible.  For  one 
principal  thing  he  had  resolved  to  give  up  "Bar-Z"  as 
a  cattle  brand,  and  register  a  new  one.  That,  of  it 
self,  he  said,  required  a  visit  to  Austin.  He  wanted 
to  be  legally  ready,  by  the  spring  round-up,  to  mark 
his  calves  with  the  initial  letters  of  his  own  name.  If 
for  nothing  beyond  the  pride  of  it,  he  preferred  "R.  B." 
to  "Bar-Z." 

With  Aunt  Tilda,  who  never  wearied  herself  with 
a  too  deep  digging  into  causes,  this  last  from  Robert 
seemed  to  have  the  force  of  argument,  and  it  was 
settled  then  that  two  days  later  he  should  start  for 
Tascosa  to  take  the  stage. 

There  are  two  conditions  which  a  right-hearted 
man  will  ever  confront  for  himself.  These  be  con 
ditions  of  war  and  love.  In  neither  do  the  proprieties 
permit  of  a  proxy.  A  true  man,  a  brave  man,  one 
worthy  foe's  feud  or  woman's  heart,  will  do  his  own 
fighting  and  his  own  courting,  and  never  dream  of 
substitutes. 

Robert  was  neither  true  man  nor  brave.  Were 
it  war  he  would  have  skulked,  and  at  the  best  sent 
some  one  braver  than  himself  to  serve  in  his  timid 
stead.  It  being  love,  he  followed  a  parallel  course, 
and  resolved  to  enlist  Aunt  Tilda. 

In  coming  to  this  decision  he  had  pride  enough 
to  find  fault  with  himself.  He  even  gave  himself 
hard  names,  and  waxed  denunciatory  concerning 
his  cowardice  and  want  of  virile  fiber.  But — here  he 

174 


ROBERT'S    TONGUE-TIED   LOVE 

spread  out  his  hands  in  a  self-excusing  way — what 
was  he  to  do?  He  had  tried  to  speak  and  found  him 
self  too  weak.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  Aunt 
Tilda. 

Robert,  by  skillful  maneuverings,  got  Aunt  Tilda 
alone.  To  his  joy,  those  verbal  difficulties  which  had 
closed  his  lips  when  he  would  have  talked  with  Ethel 
vanished.  Having  Aunt  Tilda  for  an  auditor  was  a 
helpful  change;  where  before  he  had  been  silent 
he  became  eloquent  now.  All  his  later  life  he  had 
gone  to  Aunt  Tilda  with  his  woes  and  needs,  and  this 
doubtless  was  a  present  assistance. 

Robert,  not  without  a  whimper,  besought  the  help 
of  Aunt  Tilda.  He  worshiped  Ethel!  She  was 
necessary  to  his  happiness!  He  even  said  that  he 
could  not  live  without  her,  although  this  was  hyper 
bole.  He  closed  with  a  flood  of  sentiment  that  re 
sulted  in  tears.  As  he  wiped  away  the  drops  from  his 
cheek,  he  said: 

"Will  you  speak  to  her  while  I'm  away?" 

The  request  was  preferred  in  a  most  pleading 
tone.  Aunt  Tilda  heard  him  without  interrupting. 
Her  silence  arose  from  a  feeling  of  astonishment  to 
find  herself  thus  distinguished.  She  had  considered 
many  contingencies,  but  her  imagination  never  pic 
tured  this  one.  Here  was  Robert,  thrusting  his  love- 
racked  heart  upon  her  as  a  sacred  trust!  Aunt  Tilda 
gasped;  it  was  all  excessively  disconcerting. 

Insensibly,  Aunt  Tilda  had  grown  to  regard  Robert 
and  Ethel  as  her  own  personal  children,  and  the 
chance  that  they  might  one  day  marry  had  not  en 
tered  her  thoughts.  Robert's  love-confessions,  there 
fore,  gave  her  a  kind  of  start.  She  was  by  no  means 

175 


THE    THROWBACK 

sure  for  a  moment  that  she  liked  the  idea.  Moved 
by  Robert's  tears,  however,  Aunt  Tilda  suppressed 
any  first  expression  of  disapproval.  Collecting  her 
self,  and  molded  by  her  love  for  Robert,  her  ready 
nature  even  began  to  ask  itself,  Why  not? 

To  be  sure,  in  order  to  answer  this,  she  had  also 
to  conquer  the  feeling  that  the  pair  were  not  still  in 
their  small  childhood.  They  had  grown  into  matur 
ity  without  her  becoming  awake  to  it,  and  it  now  re 
quired  a  distinct  effort  on  her  part  to  see  that  they 
were  no  longer  boy  and  girl,  but  man  and  woman. 
Poor  Aunt  Tilda  sighed!  The  realization  brought 
with  it  an  atmosphere  of  sadness. 

There  came  a  long  wait,  in  which  she  put  and  re-put 
to  herself  that  query:  Why  not?  The  answering  re 
flection  began  to  cheer  her.  After  all  it  might  be  a 
change  for  the  good.  They  would  continue  to  live 
with  her.  There  would  be  no  breaking  up  of  house 
hold  ties.  More,  it  would  close  the  door  on  such  dis 
heartening  possibilities. 

Indubitably,  if  Robert  and  Ethel  failed  to  marry 
each  other,  it  was  not  to  be  expected  that  they 
would  continue  to  remain  mateless  for  the  balance  of 
their  days.  Ethel  would  find  a  husband  in  some  one 
else;  and  he  would  take  her  away.  Robert  would 
lead  to  church  some  blushing  damsel,  with  whom — 
when  the  damsel  was  done  blushing — she,  Aunt  Tilda, 
might  not  find  herself  in  concord.  Here  she  had  a 
vision  of  herself  living  in  loneliness!  This  made  her 
gulp.  She  began  to  hope  that  Robert  and  Ethel 
would  wed.  Yes,  indeed!  then  would  they  three  be 
together.  And  there  would  come  children — but  here 
Aunt  Tilda  checked  herself.  It  was  such  an  absolute 

176 


ROBERT'S    TONGUE-TIED    LOVE 

case  of  counting  one's  chickens  before  they  were 
hatched! 

These  ruminations,  as  they  ran  to  and  fro  in  Aunt 
Tilda's  head,  took  up  no  little  time.  During  this 
space  she  sat  gazing  at  Robert  somewhat  wildly. 
Her  silence  began  to  frighten  him;  he  ceased  mopping 
away  his  tears  to  question  her  with  his  eyes. 

Getting  hold  of  her  voice,  Aunt  Tilda  began  very 
naturally. 

"Why  don't  you  ask  Ethel  yourself?" 

Robert,  with  a  kind  of  sob,  shook  his  helpless 
head. 

"I  fear  to  ask  her,"  he  said. 

Then  he  told  all — how  he  had  attempted  to  speak, 
and  couldn't.  It  was  beyond  his  strength,  above 
his  powers;  his  one  hope  was  Aunt  Tilda! 

These  abject  avowals  did  nothing  toward  strength 
ening  Aunt  Tilda's  respect  for  Robert. 

Women  revere  force;  they  like  men  to  carry  them 
off  hi  the  teeth  of  protest;  their  deepest  admiration 
is  reserved  for  Sabines  who  wed  them  vi  et  armis. 
Nothing  is  more  alarming  to  your  true  woman  than  a 
masculine  weakness  greater  than  her  own.  Once  she 
places  herself  at  a  safe  distance  from  it,  she  settles 
her  feathers  to  a  comfortable  contempt  for  the  man 
who  has  frightened  her  with  its  display. 

Aunt  Tilda,  in  spite  of  her  maternal  attitude  toward 
Robert,  was  set  on  edge  when  he  admitted  that  he 
was  afraid  to  speak  to  Ethel.  He  saw  a  corner  of 
her  contempt  sticking  out,  and  sought  to  protect 
himself  with  an  explanation. 

"It  isn't  fear,"  said  he,  "it's  diffidence." 

Aunt  Tilda  drew  partial  relief  from  this  substitu- 
177 


THE    THROWBACK 

tion  of  terms,  although  she  vaguely  felt  that  it  marked 
a  distinction  rather  than  a  difference. 

She  and  Robert  settled  themselves  to  what  one 
might  describe  as  a  passionless  review  of  the  situa 
tion.  The  idea  of  a  wedding  waxed  in  favor  with 
Aunt  Tilda.  By  the  time  they  had  talked  ten  min 
utes,  she  was  as  ardently  anxious  for  it  as  Robert 
himself. 

" Remember  that  it  means  my  happiness/'  pleaded 
Robert. 

The  next  day,  as  Robert  was  making  ready  for  his 
journey,  something  occurred  to  set  Aunt  Tilda  think 
ing.  Robert  must  ride  alone  as  far  as  the  Cross-8 
ranch,  and  from  the  plenitude  of  her  wisdom  she  had 
come  out  to  endow  him  with  a  few  cautions.  From 
the  Cross-8  he  would  be  guarded  to  Tascosa  by  those 
swarthy  janizaries,  the  " armed  guard"  of  the  Dona 
Inez.  As  to  what  previous  perils  might  lie  in  wait, 
however,  Aunt  Tilda  felt  compelled  to  have  a  final 
word.  Ethel  was  with  her  to  say  good-bye. 

Robert,  who  was  standing  by  his  pony,  which 
Cato  had  just  brought  up,  paused,  foot  in  stirrup, 
to  look  at  Ethel. 

"Why  not  ride  with  me  for  a  mile?"  he  asked 
wistfully.  "Cato  will  saddle  Jet  in  a  moment." 

Robert's  tone  fell  almost  to  the  plaintive.  Ethel's, 
as  she  responded,  was  brightly  gay.  It  was  as  if 
one  sorrowed  over  a  coming  separation  while  the 
other  felt  relieved.  Aunt  Tilda,  in  her  new  enlighten 
ment,  observed  this,  and  found  therein  much  that 
was  unsatisfactory. 

Then  came  worse. 

"Poor  Jet!"  said  Ethel.  "I  had  him  out  yesterday, 
178 


ROBERT'S    TONGUE-TIED   LOVE 

and  I  think  he  lamed  himself.  At  any  rate  he  came 
in  utterly  fagged.  I  couldn't  ride  him  to-day;  it 
would  be  too  much  for  him. " 

As  though  these  cheerful  prevarications  were  his 
cue,  and  he  would  make  profert  of  himself  in  their 
disproof,  Jet  at  this  pinch  came  tearing  round  the 
corner  of  the  'dobe,  curveting  and  buck-jumping,  a 
thorough  example  of  a  pony  in  spirits.  He  ran  to 
Ethel  on  a  theory  of  sugar;  for  it  was  her  habit  to 
regale  him  with  stray  lumps  of  that  confection. 

This  prompt  refutation  of  Ethel's  reasons  for  not 
riding  that  mile  with  Robert  disquieted  Aunt  Tilda. 
The  more,  because  while  Robert  changed  color  and 
looked  as  though  he  had  received  a  blow,  Ethel, 
unabashed,  continued  as  merry  as  a  lark. 

"A  merciful  girl  is  merciful  unto  her  beast!"  said 
Ethel  lightly.  " Isn't  she,  Jet?" 

Jet  gave  a  whinnying  squeal.  But  whether  the 
squeal  were  a  squeal  of  assent  to  Ethel's  preach 
ments  on  mercy,  or  a  squeal  of  protest  at  her  failure 
to  give  him  any  sugar,  did  not  appear. 

Aunt  Tilda  beheld  in  this  affair  that  which  filled 
her  soul  with  distrust.  The  thought  had  never 
taken  form  with  her  that  Ethel  might  refuse  Robert. 
She  had  considered  only  Robert;  and  took  some 
what  for  granted  the  sure  willingness  of  Ethel. 

"Perhaps,"  thought  Aunt  Tilda,  to  whom  opti 
mism  was  easy,  "she  has  already  fathomed  Robert's 
feeling,  and  is  inclined  to  be  coy.  Girls  are  fond  of 
coquetry,  and  Ethel  is  a  girl. " 

This  sage  solution  of  that  contradiction  which 
Ethel's  words  and  Jet's  high-flown  spirits  presented 
quieted  Aunt  Tilda's  momentary  uneasiness.  But 

179 


THE    THROWBACK 

it  did  not  present  itself  to  Robert,  or  if  it  did  he 
rejected  it.  Following  an  appealing  glance  at  Aunt 
Tilda,  he  rode  away  visibly  cast  down. 

The  Indian  fears  of  Aunt  Tilda  were  groundless, 
and,  with  nothing  more  threatening  than  a  coyote  to 
cross  his  path,  Robert  arrived  in  due  season  at  the 
Cross-8.  Don  Anton  was  still  there,  shoulder  slowly 
mending,  rancor  gathering  heat. 

"Do  your  mission  to  Austin/'  said  he,  as  the  next 
morning  Robert  made  ready  to  go,  "and  return  as 
speedily  as  you  may.  All  shall  be  ready.  Our  ven 
geance  must  not  be  starved  by  too  long  a  wait. " 

"And  those  Kiowas!  There  will  be  no  hitch  in 
that  quarter?" 

"Pedro  of  the  Knife  is  already  among  them. 
They  will  listen.  His  mother  was  a  squaw  of  their 
tribe.  I  tell  you  there  will  come  no  failure/'  con 
cluded  Don  Anton  fiercely,  his  white  teeth  showing. 
"I  am  sure  of  nothing  if  not  of  this  Moonlight's 
insolent  blood. " 


180 


CHAPTER  XIV 
JEFF  HORNE  TURNS  MINER 

WHILE  those  sand-buried  rubies  were  never  out  of 
the  mind  of  Moonlight,  it  struck  him — for  he  was 
not  without  powers  of  self-observation — as  curious 
that  they  always  came  coupled  with  thoughts  of  the 
"Beautiful  One.'7  He  did  not  know  Ethel's  name, 
and  was  angry  with  himself  for  being  ignorant  of  it. 
This  darkness  seemed  criminal,  and  in  atonement  he 
called  her  the  " Beautiful  One."  The  handkerchief 
thrown  him  by  the  Dona  Inez  was  the  "Beautiful 
One's";  he  had  seen  the  Dona  Inez  whip  it  from  her 
neck.  There  was  a  silk  embroidered  "E"  in  one 
corner.  What  should  that  stand  for?  Plainly,  it  was 
the  initial  of  a  name.  And  that  name! — was  it  Edith? 
or  Emily?  or  Eunice?  or  what?  He  could  recall  many 
names  that  commenced  with  E.  He  wasted  much 
time  over  that  square  of  dainty  cloth.  It  seemed 
odorous  of  the  beautiful  throat  that  had  worn  it. 
And  all  the  time  there  arose  never  the  thought  that 
he  had  no  right  to  its  possession. 

Once,  indeed,  he  had  said  to  himself  that  he  ought 
to  have  returned  it. 

"In  that  way,"  he  argued,  "I  might  have  learned 
her  name" — for  he  put  this  contemplated  act  of  jus 
tice  on  no  higher  ground.  "Yes,  if  I'd  returned  it  I 
might  have  found  out  her  name. "  Then,  after  reflec 
tion  :  "  But  I  should  have  lost  the  handkerchief. " 

IS! 


THE    THROWBACK 

Moonlight  did  not  suspect  himself  of  being  in  love 
with  the  " Beautiful  One."  Nor  was  he;  but  the 
ground  was  plowed,  and  another  meeting  would 
have  sown  the  seed  of  it. 

As  he  gazed  at  the  gay  handkerchief  and  its  in- 
translatable  "E,"  his  anger  with  his  present  existence, 
and  a  longing — that  was  wonderfully  like  sadness 
—for  something  else,  increased  within  him.  As 
though  their  possession  would  repair  all,  his  reflec 
tions  wandered  off  to  those  inevitable  rubies,  hidden 
by  the  monk  so  long  ago. 

It  evinced  the  gothic  character  of  his  sensibilities, 
that  at  no  time  did  he  feel  shame  or  any  modest 
touch  of  it,  when  remembering  his  vainglorious  strut- 
tings  and  vaporings — his  open  contempt  of  Robert 
under  the  cottonwoods,  and  his  subsequent  swagger- 
ings  at  the  Cross-8  baile.  So  crudely  of  a  farthest 
heretofore  was  his  inborn  sense  of  every  social  pro 
priety,  so  roughly  bad  had  he  been  formed  by  his  so 
journ  with  the  Kiowas,  that  he  felt  secure  concerning 
his  conduct  on  those  occasions.  Also,  he  was  well 
content  with  that  knife-throwing;  and  with  the  later 
encounter,  in  which  the  bad  marksmanship  of  Pedro 
of  the  Knife  cost  that  Mexican  an  ear. 

All  these  he  embraced  as  natural,  while  at  the  same 
time  he  dismissed  them  as  trivial.  They,  being  slight 
matters  of  inferior  moment,  could  have  no  effect 
in  forming  the  " Beautiful  One's"  opinions  of  him. 
She  would  forget  them  as  he  did.  So  far,  however, 
as  they  possessed  weight  with  her,  they  should  incline 
judgment  in  his  favor. 

Thus,  with  unconscious  savagery,  flowed  the  rea 
sonings  of  the  gray-eyed  one.  At  the  bottom,  how- 

182 


JEFF   HORNE    TURNS    MINER 

ever,  of  his  musings  and  dreamings,  his  conjecturings 
and  regrettings,  lay  two  resolves,  like  two  unhewn 
stones  at  the  bottom  of  a  deep  well.  They  were  as 
yet  without  shape,  since  thus  far  he  had  fashioned 
them  into  no  plan.  He  was  resolved  to  again  see  the 
" Beautiful  One";  likewise,  his  determination  had 
become  fixed  to  have  in  some  fashion  a  try  for  those 
rubies.  He  would  be  unhappy  else;  and  he  was 
much  too  primal  to  accept  grief  without  a  struggle. 

Once  came  a  glimmer,  like  some  forgotten  ray  of 
the  conventional.  He  wished  he  had  not  danced 
with  the  Dona  Inez.  True,  he  had  thought  only  of 
insulting  Don  Anton,  and  letting  his  own  hardihood 
stand  carelessly  out  at  the  young  n'co's  expense.  And 
yet,  he  may  have  offended  her — the  "Beautiful  One/' 
whose  name  began  with  E.  This  momentarily  dis 
turbed  him,  and  made  him  melancholy.  However, 
as  he  couldn't  see  why  it  should,  the  feeling  was  pres 
ently  dismissed.  His  presence  at  the  Cross-8  baile 
was  intended  only  as  a  defiance  of  Don  Anton,  whose 
peons  devastated  his  buffalo  camp  and  whose  cattle  he 
had  lifted  in  reprisal.  That  whirling  dance  with  the 
Dona  Inez  had  been  superadded  to  his  original  plan, 
by  way  of  emphasis  to  that  defiance. 

" Surely,"  considered  our  hopeful  young  bar 
barian,  "the  Beautiful  One" — whose  handkerchief 
he  pressed  to  his  lips,  and  whose  sweet  name  began 
with  E — "must  have  understood  these  things.  Every 
dull,  unlettered  maid  of  Mexico,  at  the  ball  that 
night,  understood.  There  could  have  been  no  chance, 
then,  that  the  Beautiful  One — wise,  and  brightened 
by  education — was  ignorant." 

Having  settled  these  things  so  as  to  give  himself 
183 


THE    THROWBACK 

the  most  ease,  he  again  lowered  his  brows  to  the 
problem  of  those  rubies.  How  to  move  that  sand- 
mountain? — how  to  find  that  treasure-hiding  spring 
and  bring  it  to  the  light? — those  were  the  questions 
he  proposed  to  himself. 

One  evening  he  turned  on  Jeff  Home;  that  good 
man  and  tried  companion  was  oiling  a  six-shooter. 

"Didn't  you  tell  me  that  you  were  once  a  miner?" 

Jeff  looked  up  from  the  six-shooter. 

"Why,  I  reckon  I  did  let  fly  some  such 
bluff,"  he  said.  "Still,  between  us,  I  wouldn't  ad 
vise  you  to  gamble  much  on  what  I  know  about 
mining. " 

"But  you  have  worked  as  a  miner?" 

"Thar's  nothing"  said  Jeff,  laying  aside  the  six- 
shooter — "thar's  nothin'  I  esteems  so  much  as  frank 
ness  among  pards.  The  trooth  is,  Cap'n,  my  minin' 
op 'rations  was  confined  to  sal  tin'  one  claim,  an' 
sawin'  it  off  on  a  ragin'  an'  enfettered  tenderfoot, 
who'd  come  pirootin'  into  the  boundless  West  to 
spend  money." 

"You  could  drift  into  the  bosom  of  a  hill?" 

"Shore!  Any  fool  who  saveys  pick  from  shovel 
could  do  that." 

Moonlight  regarded  Jeff  with  a  quizzical  eye. 

"Uncle  Jeff,"  said  he,  after  a  moment,  "I've  a 
mining  job  for  you." 

At  the  extended  title  Jeff  had  thrown  up  his  hands 
with  a  gesture  of  despair. 

"Which  I  knowed  the  worst  was  on  its  way,  the 
minute  you  says  'Uncle  Jeff.'  The  only  other  time 
you  ever  honors  me  in  that  manner,  was  when  I  was 
preevailed  on  to  ford  the  Pecos,  doorin'  the  Joone 

184 


JEFF    HORNE    TURNS    MINER 

rise;  an'  I  comes  within  an  ace  of  drowning.  But,  go 
on!"  The  last,  desperately. 

"This  isn't  going  to  kill  you,"  laughed  Moonlight; 
"and  there  should  be  a  fortune  in  it  for  all  of  us 
— you  and  Red  River,  as  well  as  myself." 

"Proceed!"  observed  Jeff,  heroically.  "Thar's 
nothin'  so  gilds  toil  as  riches.  Besides" — and  here 
his  manner  became  apologetic — "I'm  not  one  of 
them  effete  'ristocrats  who  holds  that  manyooal  labor 
is  degradin'.  No,  sir,  not  me;  I  only  claims  it's  dis- 
gustin' — which  is  a  heap  worse." 

Moonlight,  disregarding  the  observations  of  his 
companion  concerning  labor,  gave  him  an  inkling 
of  what  was  in  his  mind.  He  said  nothing  definite 
about  rubies  or  treasure  of  any  sort.  The  plan  was 
this:  Jeff  must  employ  a  half  dozen  Mexicans — 
they  might  be  picked  up  in  Tascosa.  Then,  with 
their  aid,  he  was  to  tunnel  the  sand-mountain,  follow 
ing  as  his  guide  the  thin  stream  that  flowed  from 
the  buried  spring.  It  would  take  time,  doubtless; 
for  not  only  would  the  tunneling  move  slowly,  and 
still  more  slowly,  the  farther  he  drifted  into  the  hill, 
but  the  tunnel  must  be  "timbered"  to  keep  it  from 
caving  in. 

"My  notion,"  explained  Moonlight,  "is  that  you 
will  need  five  Mexicans;  two  to  dig  and  wheel  out 
the  sand;  two  to  chop  and  fashion  the  timbers  to 
secure  the  tunnel;  and  a  fifth  to  keep  camp  and 
cook  for  you." 

"An'  me,  personal?"  demanded  Jeff,  with  a  look  of 
concern. 

"You're  to  superintend  the  Mexicans." 

"Good  scheme!"  exclaimed  Jeff,  in  evident  relief. 
185 


THE    THROWBACK 

"All  I  has  to  do  then  is  keep  them  Castilians 
digging  an7  bend  an  occasional  but  stimyoolatin' 
gun  over  their  heads,  by  way  of  cheerin'  on  the 
work?" 

"That's  the  programme.  Meanwhile,  Red  River 
and  I  will  stick  close  to  the  buffaloes,  killing  and 
skinning,  to  earn  the  money  to  keep  you  and  your 
Mexicans  going." 

"Well,"  said  Jeff,  after  a  pause,  "I  sees  nothin' 
in  the  prospect  that  a  proud  an7  haughty  paleface 
need  shrink  from.  When  do  you-all  allow  I'd  better 
round-up  them  pleebians,  an'  plunge  into  this  yere 
enterprise?" 

"At  once!  We'll  go  over  and  take  a  look  at  the 
sand-mountain  to-morrow;  you'll  then  get  a  clearer 
notion  of  what's  to  be  done." 

Jeff  Home  went  down  to  Tascosa,  and,  by  a  stran 
gest  of  best  fortunes,  picked  up  a  wheelbarrow  and 
two  shovels.  They  were  in  the  possession  of  Kimball 
the  blacksmith.  That  artisan  explained  the  mystery 
of  their  presence  in  the  Panhandle,  by  telling  how 
they  arrived  with  a  stray  Irishman,  who  considered 
them  his  lares  and  penates.  Getting  his  bearings, 
however,  he  abandoned  them  in  favor  of  the  strange 
gods  which  belonged  with  the  region,  and  in  the  last 
of  it  had  been  drawn  into  joining  a  cow-outfit  where, 
having  a  genius  for  the  culinary,  he  was  made  cook. 
The  shovels  and  wheelbarrow  had  become  the  goods 
and  chattels  of  Blacksmith  Kimball  by  right  of  pur 
chase,  he  having  given  a  pair  of  red  blankets  for  them. 
He  sold  them  to  Jeff,  who  augmented  the  outfit  with 
a  pair  of  chopping  axes  from  Howard's  store. 

Later,  by  keeping  a  careful  eye  on  the  monte  tables 
186 


JEFF   HORNE    TURNS    MINER 

which  abounded  in  Tascosa,  Jeff  enlisted  the  services 
of  five  Mexicans  whom  the  games  had  bankrupted. 

"What  are  you  going  to  set  them  at?"  asked 
Blacksmith  Kimball,  who  was  a  gossip. 

"Which  I'm  goin'  to  set  them  to  diggin'  down  an 
offensive  sand-hill/ '  returned  Jeff. 

"They  won't  stay  with  you,"  said  Blacksmith 
Kimball,  for  he  had  no  faith  in  the  stability  of  the 
Mexican  character.  "They'll  quit  with  the  first 
blister  on  their  hands." 

Jeff  thought  not.  He  had  schemes  for  retaining  the 
affections  of  that  quintette.  For  one  thing  he  would 
not  pay  them  until  the  digging  was  over  with  and 
done.  Also,  he  proposed  to  inaugurate  a  reign  of 
terror,  and  hold  them  loyally  to  their  tasks  through 
the  controlling  power  of  fear. 

"An'  as  a  last  resort,"  explained  Jeff,  "I'll  nacher- 
ally  fall  back  on  my  faithful  old  buffalo  gun.  The 
first  one  of  them  greasers  that  really  tries  to  quit, 
will  shore  quit  in  the  smoke;  an',  from  what  I've 
seen  of  Mexicans,  I  don't  reckon  as  how  I'll  have  to 
bump  off  more'n  one,  before  the  balance  '11  begin  to 
see  things  in  their  troo  light. " 

Blacksmith  Kimball  nodded  approval;  the  system 
outlined  by  Jeff  should  without  doubt  accomplish 
much.  The  pair  went  over  to  the  dance  hall,  and 
drank  to  each  other's  health. 

The  Mexicans,  in  disproof  of  the  slanderous  appre 
hensions  of  Jeff  and  Blacksmith  Kimball,  behaved 
extremely  well — for  Mexicans.  The  sand  was  easy  to 
dig,  for  one  encouraging  matter,  and  that  was  fortu 
nate.  Under  the  compelling  thumb  of  Jeff  the  bur 
rowing  began;  at  the  end  of  a  week  the  hill  had  been 

187 


THE    THROWBACK 

pierced  to  a  distance  of  one  hundred  feet.  As  nearly 
as  might  be  guessed,  it  would  require  three  months 
to  reach  the  spring.  The  deeper  the  drift,  the  longer 
it  would  take  to  wheel  out  the  sand;  and  that  had  to 
be  considered  in  making  a  calculation. 

As  fast  as  the  tunnel  was  pushed  forward,  the 
sides  and  roof  were  "  timbered"  with  split  pine  slabs, 
cut  from  the  side  of  the  monk's  hill.  There  arose  a 
single  trouble:  the  sand,  being  as  fine  and  as  dry  as 
snuff,  would  seek  out  every  crack  and  crevice  between 
the  slabs  to  come  sifting  through.  This  made  tedious 
work  of  the  timbering,  since  the  joints  must  be  as 
tight  as  though  meant  to  hold  water,  in  order  to  keep 
back  the  sand,  which  else  would  stream  in  to  fill  the 
tunnel. 

Moonlight  remained  with  Jeff  a  day  or  two  at  the 
start.  He  was  mightily  cheered  by  the  rapidity  with 
which  the  work  was  driven  forward,  and  the  deft  ac 
curacy  of  Jeff's  engineering — for  the  latter  followed 
the  little  stream  of  water  into  the  sandy  labyrinth  of 
the  hill,  as  surely  as  ever  Theseus  followed  Ariadne's 
clue  of  silk. 

Being  satisfied  on  the  score  of  Jeff  and  his  moiling 
Mexicans,  Moonlight  made  ready  to  return  to  the 
Dove's  Nest.  He  would  visit  Jeff  from  time  to  time 
to  note  how  the  work  came  on.  Meanwhile,  the  robe- 
hunting  season  was  in  full  blast;  there  were  buffaloes 
that  must  be  killed. 

"  Suppose  some  of  them  Cross-8  people  come  nosin' 
'round?"  questioned  Jeff,  as  Moonlight  was  about 
to  ride  away. 

"  You've  got  your  Sharp's  and  your  six-shooters. 
Stand  them  off!" 

188 


JEFF    HORNE    TURNS    MINER 

Jeff  received  these  instructions  with  a  serene  face; 
they  appeared  to  dovetail  with  his  inclinations.  What 
he  said  might  indicate  as  much. 

" Right  you  be!"  he  exclaimed.  "Your  orders, 
Cap'n,  are  in  strict  line  with  what  I'd  have  suggested 
myse'f.  Which/'  he  concluded,  with  the  manner  of 
one  who  pays  himself  a  compliment,  "is  only  another 
an'  most  convincin'  proof  of  how  great  minds  allers 
thinks  alike. " 

The  buffaloes  came  drifting  slowly  in  from  the 
northern  pastures  in  vast  droves,  and  Moonlight  and 
Red  River  were  kept  busy  from  dawn  till  dark.  It  is 
no  light  task  to  kill  and  skin  thirty  buffaloes — thirty 
was  the  number  to  which  they  limited  themselves 
as  being  a  fair  day's  work.  Besides,  they  must  peg 
out  and  scrape  the  hides  for  curing. 

The  killing  grounds,  an  hour's  ride  from  the  Dove's 
Nest,  were  the  gentle  eastern  slope  of  a  low  hill. 
The  hill  offered  a  natural  bed-ground  for  the  buffaloes, 
and  each  morning  one  was  sure  of  finding  there  a 
hundred  or  more  of  old  full-robed  bulls,  luxuriating 
in  the  first  rays  of  the  morning  sun  as  they  dried  the 
frost  from  their  shaggy  backs.  The  killing  of  the 
day  before  in  no  wise  seemed  to  warn  them.  Every 
morning  saw  the  hill  a  slaughtering  ground;  that 
evening  a  fresh  contingent,  unalarmed,  would  come 
drifting  in  and  choose  it  for  a  resting  place.  Moon 
light  was  given  no  unusual  work;  he  bowled  over  his 
daily  thirty — and  might  have  made  it  three  hundred 
had  he  cared  to — without  stirring  from  his  tracks. 
After  the  first  bull  was  down,  it  was  the  merest  case 
of  load  and  fire,  as  fast  as  cartridges  could  be  snapped 
into  the  rifle  and  the  rifle  brought  to  the  shoulder. 

189 


THE    THROWBACK 

When  thirty  were  stretched,  Red  River  drove 
out  from  the  Dove's  Nest  in  a  big  wagon;  the  buf 
faloes  were  skinned,  and  the  robes  carted  back  to 
the  camp.  Then  came  the  pegging  out  and  scraping; 
for  the  drying  grounds  lay  close  under  the  lee  of  the 
Dove's  Nest,  there  being  coyotes  and  Indians  and 
Mexicans — all  thievish  perils  in  the  order  named — 
from  whose  larcenies  the  robes  must  be  defended. 
There  were  the  hide-bugs,  too ;  but  a  sprinkling  of 
poisoned  water  did  for  them  just  what  a  sprinkling  of 
rifle  bullets  was  expected  to  do  for  the  others. 

Three  weeks,  replete  of  rifle  smoke  and  buffalo 
robes,  went  by  at  the  Dove's  Nest,  and  Moonlight 
and  the  indefatigable  Red  River  had  stretched,  cured 
and  piled  up  six  hundred  robes. 

"At  least  three  thousand  dollars'  worth,"  was  the 
comment  of  Moonlight,  as  he  considered  the  harvest. 
"I  shall  leave  you" — this  to  Red  River — "to  bale 
them  up,  while  I  ride  down  to  the  'Dobe  Walls,  and 
arrange  their  sale.  It's  about  time  that  Uncle  Jeff 
encouraged  his  Mexicans  with  a  pay-day. " 

Moonlight  stopped  one  night  with  Jeff,  at  his 
camp  by  the  monk's  hill.  That  sterling  man  was 
having  unusual  worry,  because  of  the  sand  sifting 
through  the  timbering  of  his  tunnel.  Upon  that  very 
day,  one  of  his  Mexicans  had  carelessly  struck  an  up 
right  with  his  shovel.  He  knocked  it  loose,  and  the 
dry,  snuff-like  sand,  fine  as  flour,  came  pouring  in 
through  the  opened  crack.  It  was  the  work  of  the 
afternoon  to  repair  damages  and  wheel  out  the  in- 
rushing  sand.  By  dark,  however,  Jeff,  with  his  assist 
ants,  had  restored  the  situation  to  what  he  termed 
"normal." 

190 


JEFF    HORNE    TURNS    MINER 

"Also,"  he  added,  as  he  recounted  the  mishap, 
"I'd  have  shore  massacred  that  Mexican,  only  he's 
by  nacher  so  plumb  industrious  that  I  hated  to  lose 
him.  As  it  was  I  repressed  my  passions,  merely 
p'intin'  out  how  all  that  yereafter  lay  between  his 
skelp  an'  my  bowie  knife  was  him  not  doin'  it  ag'in." 

Moonlight,  two  days  later,  rode  President  in  to  the 
'Dobe  Walls.  The  latter  picket  post  of  civilization 
consisted  of  a  blacksmith  shop,  a  barroom,  and  a  great 
outfitting  store — all  of  sun-dried  bricks. 

In  the  hour  following  his  arrival,  Moonlight  man 
aged  the  disposal  of  those  three  thousand  robes,  and 
Merchant  Wright — their  purchaser — who  kept  the 
outfitting  store,  had  given  orders  to  his  mule-skinners 
to  hook  up  their  teams  and  bring  them  in. 

"Only  you  needn't  bring  'em  here,"  said  he. 
"When  you've  got  them  into  your  wagons,  head 
straight  for  Dodge.  I'll  take  the  word  of  Old  Tom 
Moonlight  for  the  count." 

Our  young  friend,  thus  complimented,  could  do  no 
less  than  show  his  appreciation  in  strong  waters  all 
'round. 

While  Moonlight  stood  at  the  rum-sloppy  counter 
with  Mr.  Wright,  drinking,  and  considering  buffaloes 
in  every  tense,  past,  present  and  future,  a  young  cow- 
puncher,  leggings  rustling,  spurs  jingling,  approached. 
He  had  been  sitting  to  the  rear,  and  it  was  a  word 
from  the  barkeeper  that  started  him.  As  he  came 
up,  those  features  most  to  be  noticed  in  him  were  a 
lean,  pleasant  face  and  a  rumpled  letter,  which  latter 
he  bore  in  his  hand. 

"Hanrahan  says  that  you're  my  man,"  he  re 
marked.  "An'  I  was  plenty  pleased  to  hear  it, 

191 


THE    THROWBACK 

'cause  it  saves  me  three  days'  ride.   It's  from  Frosty, " 

he   concluded,   putting  the  letter  into  Moonlight's 

fingers. 

Moonlight  looked  at  the  superscription.    It  read : 
"Old  Tom  Moonlight,   Dove's  Nest  on  the  Palo 

Duro,  via  'Dobe  Walls,  Tascosa  and  the   Cross-8." 
"I  guess  it's  mine,"  he  said,  and  tore  it  open. 

The  letter  ran  thus  : 

Dere  frend: 

This  leaves  me  feelin'  gay  an'  trusts  to  findin'  you  likewise. 
I'm  in  Austin  turnin'  farobank  for  the  statesmen.  I've  been  here 
three  days,  an'  have  already  caught  the  Attorney  Gen'ral  for  a 
thousand.  I'm  now  ropin'  at  the  State  Treasurer,  an'  if  I  tie 
him  down  I  expect  to  own  Texas  by  the  time  I'm  again  on  the 
Canadian.  However,  this  ain't  what  I  went  trackin'  out  to  tell. 

You  remember  the  young  tenderfoot  who  was  pervadin'  'round 
the  Cross-8  on  the  day  of  the  steer-thro  win' ?  He's  the  maverick 
who  bought  the  Bar-Z  outfit.  Well,  the  story's  too  long,  but 
he's  now  in  Austin  with  a  scheme  to  do  you  up.  The  Register 
at  the  Land  Office  told  me  about  it — he'd  just  called  the  turn 
for  the  limit,  an'  was  feelin'  friendly.  He  says  this  party  has 
took  out  a  patent — bought  the  title,  you  understand — to  the 
section  on  which  the  Dove's  Nest  stands.  That  not  only  gives 
him  your  camp,  but  every  spring  an  water-hole  for  an  hour's  ride 
around. 

He's  also  staked  a  law-wolf,  an'  the  two  of  'em's  got  a  paper 
from  the  court — the  judge  is  a  pard  of  mine,  an  plumb  locoed 
to  play  monte — an'  he's  now  p'intin'  out  to  stampede  you  off  the 
Palo  Duro. 

I'll  say  no  more,  as  I'm  offerin'  two  to  one,  an'  go  as  far  as  they 
like,  that  when  you  get  this  you'll  savey  what  to  do.  I  send 
per  hand  of  Joe  Gatlin'  of  the  Frying  Pan  Ranch,  who  belongs 
up  your  way.  The  hoss-thief  tenderfoot,  bearin'  said  papers, 
will  be  comin'  up  on  the  next  stage  after  this  reaches  you.  What 
better  should  you  want  than  that?  To  me  it  looks  like  a  push 
over.  Yours  trooly, 

FROSTY. 

P.  S.  Things  is  down  to  a  fine  pass,  if  stray  tenderfeet  can 
come  squanderin'  into  Texas  unrebooked,  to  play  the  law  on  us. 
If  that's  the  freedom  for  which  our  fathers  fought  and  bled, 
I  for  one  am  ready  to  turn  my  box  up,  cash  what  chips  is  out, 
an'  quit.  F. 

192 


JEFF    HORNE    TURNS    MINER 

Moonlight  read  and  re-read  Frosty 's  singular  letter; 
at  the  second  reading  a  look,  grim  and  set,  began 
to  mantle  his  face.  He  put  a  question  to  Mr.  Wright. 

"When  is  the  next  stage  due  from  the  East?" 

"It  ain't  a  reg'lar  stage-coach,"  Mr.  Wright  ex 
plained;  "it's  a  buckboard — two  mules.  It  belongs 
to  Scotty  who's  got  the  mail  contract,  but  Locoed 
Charlie  drives  it.  It  goes  once  a  week.  When  will  it 
be  in?  Bar  accidents,  it's  due  to-morrow  noon. 
What's  the  matter?  Somebody  you  want  to  see  com 
ing  up?" 

"Yes;  somebody  I  want  to  see  very  much." 
There  was  a  dangerous  dry  ness  in  the  tone.  "I 
think  I'll  ride  out  a  mile  or  so  and  meet  him.  How 
ever,  that's  not  until  to-morrow.  Meanwhile,  let's 
go  over  to  your  store.  There  will  be  five  thousand 
rounds  of  50-caliber  Sharp's  cartridges  to  go  out  to 
the  Dove's  Nest  with  your  mule  teams,  besides  one 
thousand  rounds  of  Colt's-45s." 


193 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  RESCUE  IN  THE   SNOW 

THE  next  morning  about  ten  by  Mr.  Hanrahan's 
barroom  clock,  or  as  that  merchant  in  rum  would 
have  phrased  it,  "at  fourth  drink  time,"  Moonlight 
mounted  President  and  turned  his  nose  toward  the 
East.  That  incoming  buckboard,  according,  to  the 
veracious  Frosty,  should  carry  Robert — Robert,  who 
was  coming  to  drive  him  from  the  Dove's  Nest!  It 
was  Robert  whom  Moonlight  wanted  to  meet. 

To  one  who,  like  himself,  made  an  aggressive 
specialty  of  force,  the  situation  was  simple  enough. 
Robert  was  his  enemy  by  choice,  seeking  his  harm 
in  sly,  unmanly  ways.  That  Robert  had  the  law  on 
his  side  in  no  wise  improved  his  position,  but  made  it 
worse.  The  sentiment  of  the  Panhandle  sustained 
only  the  strong  hand.  The  law  was  a  trap — a  gin — 
a  snare,  resorted  to  only  by  weak,  scheming,  criminal 
men,  who  possessed  a  vicious  willingness  to  filch  the 
goods  of  their  neighbors,  while  wanting  the  stark 
hardihood  to  go  personally  about  the  villainy.  By 
every  custom  of  the  region  the  Dove's  Nest  was  his. 
To  skulk  to  Austin  and  patent  the  title  in  himself  was, 
on  Robert's  part,  the  trick  of  a  caitiff.  In  its  way, 
too,  it  was  a  tacit  declaration  of  war.  He,  therefore, 
should  not  hesitate  to  confront  the  situation  as  be 
came  a  man.  He  would  shoot  down  Robert,  or  any 

194 


THE    RESCUE    IN    THE    SNOW 

who  stood  in  that  wrongdoer's  place,  in  defense  of 
what  were  his  rights.  That  one  who  would  claim  the 
Dove's  Nest  must  come  armed  with  something  besides 
mere  law.  It  would  take  more  than  a  paper,  bearing 
the  seal  of  the  land  office,  to  wrest  it  from  him.  He 
was  grateful  for  Frosty's  warning.  It  came  pat  to  the 
occasion.  He  could  now  deal  with  the  invasion  half 
way,  and  sharply  settle  the  Dove's  Nest  ownership. 

In  brief  the  lowering  determination  of  Moonlight 
was  to  stop  the  buckboard,  and  charge  Robert  with 
the  treacherous  enterprise  that  had  taken  him  to 
Austin  and  was  now  bringing  him  back.  The  casus 
belli  being  outlined  so  that  the  whole  world,  includ 
ing  Locoed  Charlie,  would  understand,  Robert  must 
fight.  It  should  be  war  to  the  death.  There  should 
come  a  sure  adjustment  of  the  controversy.  If  he  fell, 
Robert's  path  to  the  Dove's  Nest  would  lie  compara 
tively  open.  Were  the  fortunes  of  war  to  declare 
otherwise,  then  this  hopeful  scoundrel  now  coming  up 
the  trail  would  be  too  dead  to  press  his  claims.  It 
was  the  old-time  trial  by  battle,  and  Moonlight  re 
verted  to  it  as  readily  and  as  naturally  as  though  he 
were  living  in  the  thirteenth  century.  The  only  dif 
ference  would  be  a  difference  in  weapons;  it  should 
be  six-shooters  instead  of  swords,  knives  instead  of 
battle  axes.  But,  since  arms  would  be  equal  in  the 
hands  of  each,  this  improving  modern  difference  didn't 
count.  These  were  Moonlight's  ruminations  as  he 
paced  slowly  eastward  in  quest  of  his  enemy — or 
should  one  say  his  prey? 

About  two  miles  out  from  the  'Dobe  Walls  grew  a 
clump  of  plum  bushes.  Moonlight  would  wait  there. 
The  buckboard  should  be  along  now  in  half  an  hour. 

195 


THE    THROWBACK 

To  the  south,  a  half  mile  away,  a  ragged  rank  of 
cottonwoods  marked  the  course  of  the  Canadian. 
To  the  east,  for  a  distance  of  three  miles,  the  trail 
proper  lay  open  to  the  eye.  Moonlight,  in  savage 
wait  by  the  clump  of  plum  bushes,  would  foresee 
the  advent  of  the  buckboard  by  fifteen  minutes.  As 
he  stepped  from  the  saddle,  and  loosened  the  bridle 
of  President  by  way  of  permission  to  crop  the  grass, 
he  ran  his  gaze  along  that  three-mile  yellow  thread 
of  trail.  There  was  no  moving  thing  in  sight;  the 
looked-for  buckboard  was  still  a  creature  of  the  future. 

He  let  his  mind  rest  casually  on  Locoed  Charlie. 
He  could  have  wished  it  had  been  Scotty  himself, 
rather  than  his  half-witted  assistant.  He  wanted 
the  impending  war  and  its  causes  to  be  hereafter 
thoroughly  understood  by  the  Panhandle  public; 
and  he  rightly  feared  that  Locoed  Charlie  did  not 
own  enough  intelligence  to  grasp  the  story.  For  all 
that  he  would  go  on:  he  was  not  to  be  balked  because 
of  the  brainless  sort  of  Locoed  Charlie,  and  the  Pan 
handle  public,  as  it  later  gathered  the  details,  would 
have  to  take  the  risk. 

Gloomy,  hard  as  iron,  with  never  a  relenting  doubt 
to  stay  his  hand,  Moonlight  waited  by  the  plum  bushes, 
his  soul  set  on  blood.  He  did  not  think  once  on  the 
"Beautiful  One/7  or  consider  what  might  be  her  feel 
ings.  Doubtless,  Robert  was  in  some  sort  near  to  her. 
Still,  life  in  all  its  phases,  was  only  one  grand  risk,  and 
the  "Beautiful  One"  for  either  joy  or  grief,  was  not 
exempt  from  the  common  chances  of  existence.  The 
"Beautiful  One"  might  be  plunged  in  black  mourning 
as  the  result  of  what  he  was  so  bloodily  about!  He 
never  considered  that,  nor  would  it  have  held  him  if 

196 


THE    RESCUE    IN    THE    SNOW 

he  had.  It  was  Robert  who  should  have  thought  on 
those  things.  That  scoundrel  should  have  protected 
the  sensibilities  of  the  "Beautiful  One" — assuming 
that  she  might  care — by  a  frank,  honorable,  manly 
course  of  life.  Those  women  folk  that  belonged  with 
malefactors  who  would  skulk  to  Austin  to  steal  the 
house  over  a  neighbor's  head,  lay,  in  all  chance,  wide 
open  to  grief.  That,  however,  was  the  fault  of  the 
skulking  one.  Those  at  whom  he  aimed  his  wicked 
ness  should  not  sit  quiet  for  that  reason.  Thus  read 
Panhandle  doctrine;  and  thus  would  have  coursed 
the  reflections  of  the  sullen  Moonlight  had  the  con 
tingency  quoted  occurred — which  it  didn't — to  his 
mind. 

The  somber  resolution  visible  in  Moonlight's  face, 
while  he  paused  by  those  plum  bushes,  was  only 
once  relieved.  The  ghost  of  a  smile  chased  across 
it  to  be  gone  in  a  moment;  that  was  when  his  rumina 
tions  glanced  for  an  instant  on  Jeff  Home  and  Red 
River  BiU. 

"If  he  should  win  over  me,"  thought  Moonlight 
—who  possessed  not  a  least  intention  of  losing — 
"if  he  should  win  over  me,  I  wish  him  joy  of  Red 
River  and  Uncle  Jeff.  Even  with  me  gone,  there 
would  be  blood  on  the  Dove's  Nest  threshold  and 
worse  inside,  before  ever  he  took  possession." 

The  day,  for  so  late  in  the  season,  had  been  still 
and  warm.  Suddenly,  a  chill  puff  of  wind  struck 
Moonlight's  cheek  like  ice.  The  puff  came  from  the 
north.  He  looked  quickly  in  that  direction;  a  band 
of  cloud,  black  as  ink,  belted  the  northern  horizon. 
Aside  from  this  cloudy  strip  of  blackness  the  sky  was 
as  clear  as  a  bell,  with  the  sun  beating  vertically  down. 

197 


THE    THROWBACK 

There  came  a  second  icy  puff;  it  was  doubly  chill  by 
contrast  with  the  warm  dullness  of  the  day.  He  kept 
his  eye  on  the  black  strip  to  the  north,  which  now  be 
gan  racing  up  the  sky  with  the  swiftness  of  a  drawn 
curtain. 

President  came  up  nickering,  ears  pointed  in 
quisitively. 

"It's  a  norther  sure  enough,  old  boy,"  remarked 
Moonlight,  as  he  readjusted  the  bridle.  "But  we've 
seen  other  blizzards  in  our  time,  and  this  bunch 
of  plum  bushes  will  stand  our  friend." 

He  glanced  along  the  dusty  yellow  streak  of  trail. 
Excellent!  There  was  what  he  sought — the  buck- 
board  just  pushing  into  view,  its  lethargic  mules 
at  a  sleepy  trot.  Even  at  a  distance  of  three  miles 
he  made  out  two  persons,  no  more. 

"Two!"  said  he  to  himself.  "The  man  I'm  after 
is  the  only  passenger." 

While  his  eyes  were  following  the  approaching 
buckboard,  the  wind  came  in  stronger  puffs  and 
there  fell  a  flurry  of  snowflakes.  The  snowflakes 
were  the  white  skirmish  line  thrown  out  by  the  on- 
rushing  norther,  each  as  large  and  clinging  as  a  pinch 
of  wool.  More  flakes,  and  faster;  with  the  wind  on 
the  increase.  Moonlight  took  another  look  at  the 
far-off  buckboard;  he  could  just  make  it  out,  a  dim 
spot  in  the  whirling,  drifting  whiteness  of  the  storm. 
While  his  eyes  were  upon  it,  the  snow  thickened  and 
shut  it  out. 

The  wild  snow  now  came  down  in  a  cloud  of  cling 
ing  whiteness.  The  grass  about  the  plum  bushes 
was  covered  as  with  a  blanket.  The  blanket  grew 
visibly  deeper — one  inch,  two  inches,  three!  Moon- 

198 


THE   RESCUE   IN   THE    SNOW 

light  led  President  close  against  the  leeward  side  of 
the  clump  of  bushes,  into  which  that  profound  beast 
ground  and  pushed  his  way  to  save  himself  from  the 
drifting  snow. 

"This  is  the  thickest  I've  ever  seen  it  come  down," 
was  the  mental  comment  of  Moonlight. 

The  wind  rose,  and  with  it  the  cold!  It  was  arctic, 
that  cold — a  thermometer,  had  one  hung  in  those 
plum  bushes,  would  have  registered  a  fall  of  fifty 
points. 

"I  hope  those  buckboard  mules,"  he  muttered, 
"will  be  able  to  hold  the  trail.  The  storm  is  a  trifle 
in  their  front,  which  is  bad.  However,  they  can't 
drift  far  to  one  side;  the  river  and  that  fringe  of 
cottonwoods  will  stop  them." 

There  came  a  loud,  astonished  snort.  He  peered 
forth  through  the  thick,  dancing  flakes.  Dimly 
he  made  out  the  unwieldy  bulk  of  a  giant  buffalo 
bull,  who  had  headed  for  the  shelter  of  the  plum 
bushes,  and  was  now  greatly  disconcerted  to  find 
them  occupied  by  others.  With  the  storm  and  the 
flakes  that  clung  to  his  shaggy  frontlet  and  blinded 
him,  the  buffalo  bull  might  have  mistaken  Moonlight 
and  President  for  members  of  his  herd.  But  the  wind 
brought  him  an  enlightening  whiff,  and  with  a  pro 
digious  final  snort  he  trotted  off  toward  the  river. 

Five  minutes,  ten,  fifteen,  a  half  hour  went  by ! — the 
wind  and  the  snow  continued.  Moonlight  stepped 
into  the  open,  and  found  the  drift  piled  midway  to 
his  knee. 

"And  yet  they  ought  to  make  it!"  he  considered, 
turning  his  flake-blinded  eyes  in  the  direction  of  the 
hidden  buckboard.  "We  could  settle  the  question 

199 


THE    THROWBACK 

of  the  Dove's  Nest  in  a  blizzard  as  readily  as  though 
the  sun  were  shining.  We'd  only  have  to  go  a  little 
closer." 

An  hour  passed,  and  never  a  creaking  sign  of  the 
buckboard,  although  Moonlight  kept  his  ear  on  the 
strain.  He  looked  at  President  doubtfully;  the  big 
bay  pony  was  wrapped  in  a  coat  of  white.  At  last, 
with  the  manner  of  a  man  whose  decision  is  made,  he 
led  President  out  of  the  bushes.  Brushing  the  snow 
from  the  deep  saddle  he  mounted. 

"We'll  have  to  go  after  them,"  he  said  to  Presi 
dent.  "From  the  looks  of  things  they're  stalled. 
To  let  him  freeze  would  be  one  way;  but  it's  not 
the  way  I  want  this  man  to  die. " 

President  gave  a  plunge  as  he  felt  the  unusual 
spur.  Then  off  through  the  blinding,  blocking  tum 
ble  of  drifts  went  man  and  pony.  Sometimes  the 
snow  was  girth  deep,  but  they  broke  through.  The 
snow  and  the  wind  whipped  them,  but  they  pressed 
on.  They  were  in  all  things  a  match  for  the  storm — 
this  man  and  horse,  framed  of  blood  and  fire  and  iron! 

Moonlight  had  to  feel  his  way.  He  guided  himself 
somewhat  by  the  storm,  which  he  kept  to  his  left. 
The  lay  of  the  land  helped  him,  for  it  sloped  gently 
upward  to  the  north  side  of  the  trail.  Still,  in  such 
a  tempest,  thick  and  white  and  freezing,  it  would  have 
been  easy  to  miss  so  small  a  thing  as  the  buckboard. 
He  might  go  within  a  rod  of  it  and  never  be  the  wiser. 

President,  not  he,  discovered  it  at  last.  Of  a  sud 
den,  President  pulled  up  and  fronted  to  the  north. 
The  snow  whipped  into  his  eyes;  but  he  stood  fac 
ing  it  none  the  less  firmly,  pawing  with  one  fore- 
hoof,  and  tossing  his  head. 


THE   RESCUE    IN    THE    SNOW 

"Ah,  old  boy!  you  smell  them!"  cried  Moonlight. 

He  urged  President  to  advance  in  the  teeth  of  the 
blast.  They  made  progress,  foot  by  foot,  head  down 
to  escape  the  snow  as  much  as  might  be.  They  hadn't 
far  to  go;  the  buckboard  was  not  one  hundred  feet 
away  when  the  keen  nose  of  President  gave  notice. 
It  was  just  as  well  it  did;  a  moment  later  and  the 
buckboard  would  have  been  left  hopelessly  behind. 

The  buckboard  mules  were  standing,  noses  lowered, 
trace-deep  in  the  snow,  Locoed  Charlie  and  Robert 
motionless  in  the  single  seat.  The  reins,  and  the 
long  shotted  mule  whip  were  still  in  Locoed  Charlie's 
ringers.  The  whole  made  a  bulky  mound  of  snow; 
for  the  drift  reached  half  way  to  the  mules'  backs, 
and  fell  across  and  overflowed  the  side  of  the  buck- 
board,  covering  the  knees  and  the  laps  of  the 
men. 

Moonlight,  President  bounding  and  buck-jumping 
in  the  snow  depths,  rode  round  to  the  side  of  Locoed 
Charlie.  He  leaned  from  the  saddle  and  shook  him 
by  the  arm.  Between  snow  flurries,  he  struck  him 
and  shouted  in  his  ear.  It  was  labor  thrown  away; 
Locoed  Charlie  and  Robert  were  in  the  first  dull 
sleep  of  death  by  freezing,  and  the  only  response  to 
the  shoutings  and  the  shakings  was  a  murmur  of  quer 
ulous  protest  by  Locoed  Charlie  at  having  his  dreams 
disturbed. 

Moonlight  reached  out  and  took  the  heavy  lead- 
filled  whip  from  the  benumbed  hand  of  Locoed  Charlie. 
Reining  President  back  on  his  hocks,  to  get  the 
distance,  he  sent  the  lash  biting  like  the  point  of  a 
knife  into  the  sides  and  flanks  of  the  snow-buried 
mules.  There  was  more  life  in  the  mules  than  in 

201 


THE   THROWBACK 

the  men.  The  cruel  lash,  cracking  like  a  pistol 
and  taking  off  a  piece  of  hide  as  big  as  a  two-bit 
piece  with  every  stroke,  woke  up  the  team  as  with 
a  coal  of  fire.  They  made  a  scrambling  start,  and 
began  to  move. 

Once  free  of  the  drift  that  had  formed  about  them, 
the  mules  did  better.  Warmed  by  exercise,  and 
maddened  into  highest  life  by  the  inveterate  lash, 
they  did  better  still.  That  thunderbolt  of  a  man  on 
the  thunderbolt  of  a  pony  was  so  much  more  terrible 
than  the  storm,  that  the  mules,  afire  from  the  pistol- 
cracking  lash,  forgot  snow  and  wind,  and  fled  before 
Moonlight  at  a  gallop. 

Sure  of  the  mules,  Moonlight  fell  back  and,  with 
energy  scarcely  modified,  sent  the  lash  curling  about 
the  half -frozen  forms  of  Robert  and  Locoed  Charlie. 
They  proved  duller  cattle  than  the  mules;  but  he 
stirred  them.  Locoed  Charlie  was  the  first  to  come 
around,  and  he  cursed  feebly  as  the  lash  fell  across 
his  shoulders  like  a  live  wire.  At  this,  Moonlight 
returned  upon  the  profane  Charlie  ten  curses  for 
his  one,  and  fairly  slashed  the  coats  from  the  backs 
of  both  Robert  and  him.  It  was  fierce  work.  He 
would  charge  forward  and  pour  a  storm  of  leather 
into  the  mules;  then  he  would  fall  back  and  cut  up 
Robert  and  Locoed  Charlie  as  though  they  were  a 
pair  of  convicts. 

The  most  wonderful  thing  was  that  the  flying 
mules  never  varied  a  rod  to  left  or  right  of  the  trail. 
They  were  full  four  miles  from  the  'Dobe  Walls 
when  the  lashing  Moonlight  unlocked  them  from 
that  death-trance.  Once  started,  he  sent  them  over 
those  four  miles  rather  faster  than  the  fat,  lazy 

202 


THE   RESCUE    IN    THE    SNOW 

mules  were  wont  to  cover  it  even  in  the  best  of 
weather. 

Up  through  the  swirl  of  the  storm  rose  the  black 
loom  of  the  big  outfitting  store.  Moonlight  saw  it, 
and  launched  a  broadside  of  leather  at  mules  and 
men  by  way  of  valedictory.  He  brought  them 
into  the  'Dobe  Walls,  reeling  and  plunging,  reins 
under  the  galloping  hoofs  of  the  mules — the  mules 
themselves  a-drip  with  blood  and  perspiration^  the 
men  bruised  and  stung  and  cut  to  tatters. 

Like  one  acknowledging  defeat,  the  blizzard  now 
began  to  abate.  As  the  buckboard  came  to  a  halt  in 
front  of  Mr.  Hanrahan's  saloon,  the  winds  fell,  the 
snow  ceased,  the  air  cleared,  while  the  sun  burst  forth 
in  a  flood  of  brightness  and  showed  the  beaten  storm 
in  full  retreat  to  the  south. 

Aunt  Tilda,  in  her  new  responsibility  as  Robert's 
love-deputy,  did  not  find  her  task  a  graceful  one. 
It  was  less  pleasant  to  speak  to  Ethel  than  she  had 
supposed  it  would  be.  She  was  beginning  to  feel  for 
one  thing  far  from  sure  that  Robert's  proffer  of  a 
heart  would  be  generously  received.  Those  doubts 
which  were  aroused  by  Ethel's  mendacious  avoidance 
of  Robert's  request  to  bear  him  company  for  a  short 
mile  that  day  he  left  for  Austin,  had  returned  with 
double  force.  Her  kindness  had  explained  them 
away  at  the  time  by  an  argument  of  girlish  coyness 
on  Ethel's  part.  Aunt  Tilda's  earliest  theory  was 
that  Ethel  had  refused  to  ride  with  Robert  in  a  spirit 
of  teasing  coquetry. 

But  the  subsequent  jocund  conduct  of  that  baffling 
damsel  did  not  bear  out  this  assumption  of  coyness. 

203 


THE   THROWBACK 

By  every  law  of  love,  as  remembered  by  Aunt  Tilda, 
Ethel,  following  Robert's  departure,  should  have 
moped  and  gloomed.  That  is  she  should  have 
gloomed  and  moped,  assuming  for  her  a  tenderness 
toward  the  departed  one.  Ethel  did  nothing  of 
that  dull  and  mournful  sort.  Her  face  was  wreathed 
with  all  the  smiles  of  May.  She  went  joyously  up 
and  down,  a  laugh  on  her  lips  and  a  song  in  her 
throat.  In  the  most  shameless  fashion,  too,  she 
had  had  the  saddle  on  Jet  before  Robert  was  gone 
an  hour,  and  the  headlong  manner  in  which  she 
sent  that  ambitious  mustang  skurrying  across  the 
landscape  rendered  the  story  of  her  having  wearied 
him  to  a  panting  standstill  the  day  before  an  abject 
farce.  All  these  symptoms  were  considered  by  Aunt 
Tilda,  and  in  no  one  of  them  could  she  discern  hope 
for  Robert. 

In  her  troubles  she  took  counsel  with  the  Professor. 

"It  will  break  Robert's  heart,"  she  concluded,  "if 
Ethel  should  not  return  his  love.  Really,  he  wept 
as  he  spoke  of  her." 

The  good  Professor  found  himself  in  a  dilemma, 
out  of  which  he  crawled  as  best  he  might.  He  could 
pretend  to  no  impressions  concerning  Ethel's  love  or 
lack  of  it  for  Robert.  He  was  scientific,  and  had  been 
thinking  on  other  things.  Now  that  the  business  was 
mentioned,  however,  he  could  not  dodge  the  hope 
that  Ethel  despised  Robert,  as  he  did.  For  he  held 
her,  with  her  heart  of  gold  and  that  wisdom  which  had 
so  lately  bewildered  him,  as  much  too  good  for  Robert. 

"The  boy's  not  worthy  of  her!"  thought  the  Pro 
fessor,  while  Aunt  Tilda  talked.  "He  isn't  fit  to 
touch  her  fingers,  for  all  he's  half  a  Gordon !  It  would 

204 


THE   RESCUE   IN   THE    SNOW 

be  a  manifest  wrong  to  waste  so  brilliant  a  mind  on 
such  a  palterer." 

The  Professor  would  have  perished  where  he  stood 
rather  than  give  Aunt  Tilda  a  guess  at  these  views. 
He  was  too  careful  of  her  feelings  for  that.  She  loved 
Robert,  if  Ethel  did  not,  and  the  Professor  wouldn't 
have  wounded  that  love  for  the  world.  Moreover, 
he  had  his  own  standing  with  Aunt  Tilda  to  think 
about. 

Being  wily  in  an  old-school,  gentlemanly  way,  the 
Professor  went  to  one  side,  and  lectured  on  tears.  Aunt 
Tilda  had  said  that  Robert  wept ;  the  wary  Professor, 
seeking  to  avoid  the  issue  of  Ethel's  love,  took  those 
lamentations  as  his  text.  Tears  proved  nothing,  he 
said,  when  one  undertook  to  measure  feeling.  Tears 
were  a  matter  of  temperament.  The  deepest  grief 
was  oft  times  dry  of  eye.  Also,  the  Professor  had 
known  grief  to  be  a  question  of  digestion;  tears  might 
find  their  sources  in  cheese  or  suet  pudding. 

"Beyond  that,  my  dear  Madam,"  quoth  the  Pro 
fessor,  "I  myself  attach  but  little  instructive  impor 
tance  to  tears.  They  prove  nothing  but  themselves. 
For,  even  granting  them  an  origin  above  mince  pies 
and  cheese,  they  are  generally  the  result  of  selfishness. 
Folk  weep  at  a  grave,  not  for  the  dead  but  for  them 
selves.  It  is  their  loss,  not  his,  which  they  mourn." 

Aunt  Tilda  listened  in  sincere  impatience  to  the 
word-ramblings  of  the  astute  Professor.  She  said 
they  were  beside  the  point,  and  in  nowise  met  her 
question.  She  must  tell  Ethel  of  Robert's  love;  she 
had  asked  the  Professor  how  to  set  about  it.  And 
all  she  received  in  response  was  a  lecture  on  digestion, 
and  the  grievous  possibilities  that  rankled  in  pies  and 

205 


THE    THROWBACK 

puddings,  to  close  with  a  dissertation  on  the  hypocrisy 
of  graveyard  tears.  She  thought  the  Professor  dis 
ingenuous,  and  was  surprised  by  it.  Perhaps  he  did 
not  care  to  talk  on  love,  as  a  topic  trivial  and  beneath 
him! 

The  Professor  cast  upon  Aunt  Tilda  a  shy,  wistful 
look. 

"Talk  on  love,  my  dear  Madam!"  he  cried,  while 
his  cheek  flushed  like  a  boy's.  "Now  there  is  one 
love  I  could  talk  on  forever! — one  heart  that  I  should 
like  to  put  in  your  charge  through  all  eternity!" 

It  was  Aunt  Tilda's  turn  to  color.  Still,  she  dis 
played  not  a  little  address  at  this  crisis. 

"Now  I,"  she  replied,  lifting  her  hand  to  warn 
the  Professor,  who  seemed  to  be  coming  too  close — 
"now  I  am  like  a  lawyer  who  will  take  but  one  case 
at  a  time.  I  shall  refuse  to  hear  a  second  love  story 
until  I've  disposed  of  poor  Robert's.  Of  course," 
she  concluded,  letting  her  softened  glance  rest  kindly 
on  the  Professor,  "once  that  is  off  my  hands,  I  will 
not  say  but  what  I  might  listen  to  another." 

"My  dear  Madam!"  began  the  Professor,  in  a 
state  of  exclamatory  ecstasy. 

The  fat  little  hand  went  up. 

"There!"  she  said,  "I've  no  more  time  now." 

With  this  Aunt  Tilda  left  the  room,  while  the 
Professor,  seizing  his  hat,  issued  forth  in  the  greatest 
excitement  to  call  the  stars  his  brothers  and  to  walk 
the  air 


206 


CHAPTER   XVI 

AUNT  TILDA  TRIES  A  STAMPEDE 

AUNT  TILDA  waited  for  an  opportunity  to  speak  with 
Ethel  alone.  She  would  have  said  before  she  sought 
the  chance,  that  a  score  of  openings  would  present 
themselves  in  the  course  of  any  afternoon.  It  im 
pressed  her  to  find,  when  now  she  went  looking  for 
them,  that  not  one  arose.  Ethel  was  either  abroad 
with  Jet  or,  if  indoors,  close  by  the  sheltering  side  of 
the  worthy  Professor. 

"I  really  believe  she  knows,"  thought  Aunt  Tilda, 
and  the  thought  disconcerted  her. 

At  last,  through  an  exercise  of  strategy  that  should 
have  led  an  army  to  a  successful  field  and  back,  she 
got  Ethel  by  herself.  Even  then  she  was  for  the 
moment  baffled.  Ethel  did  all  the  talking.  Aunt 
Tilda  could  no  more  bring  her  to  bay  than  she  could 
have  brought  a  partridge  to  bay. 

Aunt  Tilda's  wits  were  by  no  means  the  dullest  in 
the  Panhandle.  She  fully  appreciated  those  shifts 
of  Ethel  to  keep  the  upper  hand  in  the  conversation 
and  select  the  subjects.  To  be  sure,  as  to  the  latter, 
Ethel  offered  a  generous  range;  but  she  never  pre 
sented  one  that  by  any  chance  should  lead  the  talk 
within  a  verbal  mile  of  love.  Aunt  Tilda  might  have 
admired  Ethel's  sly  skill  in  avoiding  what  was  upper 
most  on  her  own  tongue,  if  she  had  been  less  sensi- 

207 


THE    THROWBACK 

lively  earnest  in  the  cause  of  Robert.  As  it  was, 
she  did  not  fail  of  drawing  certain  discouraging  in 
ferences. 

"She  plainly  understands,"  thought  Aunt  Tilda, 
"and  it's  also  quite  as  plain  that  she  wishes  to  es 
cape." 

Again  Aunt  Tilda  fell  to  marveling  that  Ethel 
should  seem  so  well  aware  of  what  was  in  her  heart. 
Being  herself  a  woman,  she  should  not  have  fallen  a 
prey  to  such  astonishment.  Women  are  by  instinct 
love-wise,  and  to  put  questions  concerning  that  love- 
wisdom,  and  the  reasons  thereof,  would  be  like  ques 
tioning  the  robins  as  to  why  they  fly  southward  in 
the  fall. 

Ethel  gave  a  new  slant  to  Aunt  Tilda's  amazement. 
Abruptly  and  of  her  own  motion  she  began  to  talk 
of  love.  Only  she  spoke — apparently — with  uncon 
scious  innocence,  and  altogether  in  the  abstract. 

"I've  been  reading  a  book,"  began  Ethel — "a  book 
full  of  love  heresies;  or,  I  should  say,  marriage  here 
sies.  Actually,  the  author  says  that  marriage  has 
nothing  to  do  with  love  or  love  with  marriage!  Now 
did  you  ever  hear  anything  more  preposterously  cold 
blooded,  aunt?  How  could  one  marry  where  one 
didn't  love?" 

"What  was  the  story?"  returned  Aunt  Tilda 
craftily. 

She  thought  she  saw  an  opening  in  the  conversa 
tional  distance  through  which  she  might  later  squeeze 
Robert  and  his  bleeding  heart. 

"Oh,  the  story,"  replied  Ethel,  "is  hardly  worth 
retelling.  But  you  cannot  conceive,  aunt,  of  its  stu 
pidity  concerning  marriage!  Now  to  me,  for  one  to 

208 


AUNT  TILDA  TRIES  A  STAMPEDE 

marry  where  one  didn't  love,  would  be  the  grossest 
sin.  Don't  you  think  so,  Aunt?" 

Ethel  made  the  appeal  with  round,  confident  vir 
gin  eyes,  sure  that  her  good  Aunt  Tilda  must  perforce 
entertain  an  equally  virtuous  view.  She  ran  on  with 
out  waiting  for  an  answer. 

"I  know  I  should  die  if  I  were  made  to  give  my 
hand  where  I  hadn't  given  my  heart." 

While  Ethel,  the  unaccountable,  thus  went  preach 
ing  on  love  and  wedlock,  Aunt  Tilda  was  not 
free  from  disquieting  meditations.  This  sudden,  not 
to  say  phenomenal  frankness  on  the  maiden's  part 
bothered  her.  Aunt  Tilda  did  not  recall  any  prior 
occasion  when  she  had  so  much  as  named  the  name 
of  love.  That  she  should  now  speak  of  it,  all  things 
considered,  was  of  itself  enough  to  teach  Aunt  Tilda 
that  this  unexpected  candor  concealed  a  purpose; 
and,  as  she  read  the  stars,  that  purpose  could  be  noth 
ing  other  than  just  to  stifle  every  first  suggestion  of 
the  love-worn  Robert. 

"If  she  loved  him,"  sighed  Aunt  Tilda,  who  felt  all 
the  pain  that  Robert  might  have  felt  had  he  been 
present  and  pleading  his  cause  in  person,  "she  would 
be  ready  and  eager  to  hear." 

Aunt  Tilda's  sense  of  duty  was  among  her  most 
formidable  characteristics.  Also,  her  diplomacy,  be 
ing  by  nature  direct,  leaned  heavily  on  the  axiom 
that  a  straight  line  is  the  shortest  distance  between 
two  points.  She  had  been  saddled  with  the  weight 
of  Robert's  lovesick  destinies,  and  she  determined, 
come  what  would,  to  put  them  to  the  test.  Also, 
when  all  was  in,  she  must  not  forget  that  Ethel's 
happiness  should  be  and  was  as  dear  to  her  as  Rob- 

209 


THE    THROWBACK 

ert's.  This  final  reflection  brought  a  ray  of  com 
fort. 

Having  resolved  to  unveil  the  love-future  of  Rob 
ert,  either  for  black  or  for  white,  she  began  di 
rectly: 

"This  is  the  first  time  you  ever  spoke  of  love." 

There  was  a  rising  inflection,  like  a  question. 

Ethel  looked  askance.  The  attack  was  coming, 
and  she  felt  a  little  frightened. 

"It  wasn't  very  delicate,"  she  returned  apologeti 
cally. 

Aunt  Tilda  began  measuring  in  her  own  mind  the 
value  of  surprise.  Should  she  set  a  trap?  At  the 
Cross-8  she  had  heard  a  stampede  described.  Would 
it  not  be  well  to  stampede  Ethel  with  some  produc 
tion  of  the  unexpected?  In  that  way  the  stampeded 
one  might  be  made  to  disclose  her  true  feeling. 

"Do  you  know  what  I  think?" 

Aunt  Tilda  bent  a  softly  meaning  glance  on  Ethel. 
The  glance  alarmed  the  young  lady.  In  the  uncer 
tainty  bred  of  that  look  she  could  not  avoid  a  flut 
ter.  What  could  be  her  good  Aunt  Tilda's  aim? 

The  good  but  disconcerting  Aunt  Tilda  went  on : 

"You  are  in  love!" 

Aunt  Tilda  got  this  off  in  tones  of  confident  moth 
erly  complacency;  and,  since  she  was  not  at  all  con 
fident  or  complacent,  it  was  the  more  to  her  credit 
as  an  actress.  Not  that  she  would  mislead  Ethel; 
she  was  only  striving  to  surprise  her,  hoping,  as  has 
been  stated,  many  favorable  things  from  a  senti 
mental  stampede  on  that  evanescent  damsel's  part. 

There  arose  much  in  the  immediate  sequence  to 
flatter  Aunt  Tilda's  hopes.  Upon  that  direct  accu- 

210 


AUNT  TILDA  TRIES  A  STAMPEDE 

sation  of  love,  coupled  with  the  soft  stare,  Ethel 
reddened  to  the  roots  of  her  hair. 

"Now,"  thinks  the  gentle  promoter  of  stampedes, 
"I  shall  get  at  her  heart." 

It  may  be  that  she  did.  For,  even  as  she  gazed, 
the  young  convicted  face  took  fire;  Ethel's  eyes  sud 
denly  filled  up,  and  she  began  to  sob. 

"What  makes  you  say  that?"  she  cried.  "It's  of 
Robert  you've  been  thinking  from  the  first.  I  don't 
love  him!  I  shall  never  love  him — my  heart  won't 
let  me!  Why  should  you  say  I'm  in  love?" 

Ethel,  all  tears  and  blushes,  buried  her  glowing 
face  in  Aunt  Tilda's  lap. 

The  good  Aunt  Tilda  was  now  the  puzzled  one. 
The  surprise  had  succeeded,  the  stampede  was 
complete!  The  mystery,  however,  only  deepened. 
Surely,  there  was  nothing  in  what  she  had  said  to 
justify  such  a  blushing  breaking  down!  Aunt  Tilda 
could  see  the  crimson  spread  and  spread  until  lost  in 
the  roots  of  Ethel's  dark  hair.  What  did  it  mean? 
Aunt  Tilda  couldn't  tell.  The  question  went  too  deep 
for  her.  If  there  were  any  solution,  it  must  be  that 
Ethel  loved,  not  Robert,  but  some  one  else.  And 
what  could  be  a  wilder  assumption?  The  thing  was 
impossible.  Who  was  there  for  her  to  love? 

Ethel  sobbed  on  with  hidden  face,  nor  did  the  crim 
son  fade  from  her  neck.  Aunt  Tilda  uttered  no  com 
ment,  offered  no  question.  She  only  stroked  with 
both  gentle  hands  Ethel's  glossy  braids. 

The  sobs  ceased;  the  stampede  was  over.  Still 
Ethel  did  not  lift  her  face. 

Aunt  Tilda  was  musing  sympathetically,  and  some 
what  sadly,  on  the  heart-problem  unfolded,  when,  as 

211 


THE    THROWBACK 

a  quail  scuttles  for  covert,  Ethel  arose  and  left  the 
room.  Aunt  Tilda  did  not  detain  her  nor  call  her 
back.  Why  should  she?  Robert  had  received  his 
answer.  Ethel  would  never  marry  Robert.  She 
could  not  help  grieving  as  the  conviction  entered  her 
soul,  and  she  reflected  upon  Robert's  sorrow. 

"None  the  less,"  thought  the  astute  Aunt  Tilda, 
"she  loves;  and  that  is  the  wonderful  part." 

Aunt  Tilda  was  so  much  the  woman  that  she  told 
the  Professor. 

"Poor  Robert!"  concluded  Aunt  Tilda.  "But 
there's  no  help — she  doesn't  love  him;  that  was 
evident  from  the  beginning." 

The  Professor  grew  incautiously  radiant.  Aunt 
Tilda  detected  the  radiance,  and  her  brows  descended 
with  a  falcon  trick  they  had  when  she  was  about  to 
rebuke  her  old  admirer. 

"You  seem  pleased,  Professor  Doremus." 

"Not  at  all,  my  dear  Madam!"  hastily  returned  the 
guilty  savant,  frightened  to  the  core  that  Aunt  Tilda 
should  give  him  his  name.  Experience  had  taught 
him  to  look  on  that  as  a  most  baleful  portent.  "Not 
at  all,  I  assure  you!  What  you  saw  was  surprise." 

Aunt  Tilda  passed  over  the  radiance  without  further 
reproof.  She  was  too  full  of  the  mystery  of  Ethel's 
heart  to  be  deflected  by  little  things.  Besides,  she 
could  take  up  the  punishment  of  the  pleased  Pro 
fessor  later, 

"The  strange  thing,"  resinned  Aunt  Tilda,  "is  that 
she  is  none  the  less  in  love." 

This  was  said  slowly,  and  with  an  air  of  reflective 
introspection,  as  though  Aunt  Tilda  were  mentally 
calling  the  roll  of  what  males  might  furnish  the  name 

212 


AUNT  TILDA  TRIES  A  STAMPEDE 

of  that  fortunate  one  who  had  found  the  way  to 
Ethel's  affections.  It  was  clear  by  her  manner  that 
the  list  was  short.  Following  a  moment's  reflection, 
Aunt  Tilda  refastened  her  questioning  gaze  on  the 
Professor. 

" Absolutely,  I  can  think  of  no  one!"  she  said,  with 
a  sort  of  kindly  despair. 

The  Professor  made  no  response,  but  maintained  a 
politely  receptive,  albeit  non-committal  manner. 

"What  would  you  advise?"  asked  Aunt  Tilda, 
finally. 

"What  should  I  advise?"  repeated  the  Professor, 
driven  to  say  something.  "I  think,  my  dear  Madam, 
that  all  things  considered  I  should  advise  a  still  hunt. 
Say  nothing  to  Ethel.  She  is  young,  sensitive — as 
indeed  are  all  brilliant  intellects.  Rest  secure  that 
when  she  does  speak,  she  will  come  first  to  you — 
you  who  have  ever  been  her  nearest  friend." 

"But,  Professor,  isn't  it  my  duty  to  question  her?" 

"I  think  not."  This  gravely:  "There  is,  my  dear 
Madam,  a  class  of  people  ever  ready  to  inflict  pain, 
and  call  it  duty.  I  might  add  that  I  never  knew  any 
of  them  to  inflict  pleasure  and  call  it  duty.  Believe 
me,  you  are  not  of  that  class.  It  would  not  be  like 
your  good  heart  to  say  anything  that  made  Ethel 
uneasy.  More  than  that,  she  won't  show  you  her 
secret  until  she  is  ready.  Questioning  wouldn't  wring 
it  from  her;  for,  as  I  read  faces,  Ethel  can  be  ex 
ceeding  obstinate  if  she  will.  You've  learned  what 
was  after  all  the  object  of  your  search:  She  doesn't 
love  Robert.  For  a  space  at  least  I  should  let  the 
matter  rest  there." 

Aunt  Tilda  was  much  led  by  the  Professor's  long 
213 


THE    THROWBACK 

speech.  His  words  never  failed  of  weight  with  her, 
and  she  accepted  them  now.  She  made  no  further  at 
tempt  to  sound  the  depths  of  Ethel's  feeling.  Those 
blushes  must  go  untranslated,  until  Ethel  herself  saw 
fit  to  hand  her  the  key  to  them. 

When  Aunt  Tilda  next  met  Ethel,  she  made  no 
reference  to  that  discussion  on  love  so  sobbingly 
broken  off.  Neither  did  she  again  bring  up  the  cause 
of  Robert. 

Ethel  was  notably  silent  for  a  day  or  two,  but  gave 
no  other  sign  of  embarrassment.  True,  her  eyes  did 
turn  furtively  defensive  on  one  or  two  occasions  when 
her  aroused  suspicions,  from  some  act  or  word  of  Aunt 
Tilda,  led  her  to  fear  a  return  to  that  talk  on  love 
and  Robert;  and  the  red,  full  lips  lined  themselves  in 
bitter  firmness,  awaiting  the  assault. 

Aunt  Tilda  observed  these  symptoms,  even  while 
she  skillfully  pretended  otherwise. 

"The  Professor  was  right,"  she  thought.  " Ethel 
could  be  decisively  stubborn." 


214 


CHAPTER   XVII 
MR.  HANRAHAN  DELIVERS  A  MESSAGE 

THE  Panhandle  cultivates  action  at  the  expense  of 
words,  and  ever  does  more  than  it  says.  When  the 
buckboard  mules  pulled  up  short  in  front  of  Mr. 
Hanrahan's  saloon,  a  dozen  ready  hands  seized  Rob 
ert  and  Locoed  Charlie,  and  bore  them  not  tenderly 
but  promptly — which  was  of  more  consequence — 
into  the  barroom.  No  one  exclaimed;  no  one  ques 
tioned.  So  far  as  any  overt  expression  of  wonder  or 
curiosity  went,  one  might  have  supposed  that  the 
advent  of  two  half-frozen,  half-senseless  gentlemen, 
with  coats  cut  to  rags,  who  made  their  appearance  on 
a  galloping  buckboard,  was  an  every-day  experience 
at  the  'Dobe  Walls.  Once  inside,  the  ready-handed 
ones  applied  rum. 

Local  belief  held  by  a  theory  that,  whatever  the 
malady,  from  gunshot  wounds  to  a  cold  in  the  head, 
the  sovereign  remedy  was  rum.  Robert  and  Locoed 
Charlie,  therefore,  were  copiously  subjected  to  that 
restorative. 

Locoed  Charlie,  inured  to  the  weather  as  well  as 
the  cures  of  the  Panhandle,  rapidly  revived  under 
this  treatment,  and  was  shortly  his  former  old-time 
addle-pated  self. 

"He's  the  same  hopeless  eediot  he  was,"  said  Mr. 
Hanrahan,  who  had  borne  a  foremost  part  and  in 

215 


THE    THROWBACK 

truth  donated  the  rum.  "Wherefore  I  pronounces  him 
out  o'  danger." 

Robert,  of  lesser  stamina  and  a  constitution  never 
robust,  did  not  display  Locoed  Charlie's  recuperative 
powers.  It  took  double  the  time  and  rum  called  for 
by  his  fellow-sufferer  to  bring  him  about.  At  that, 
he  no  sooner  emerged  from  the  lethargy  of  the  snow 
than  he  fell  before  the  awful  power  of  the  medicine. 
But  with  this  difference:  whereas  it  took  but  two 
hours  to  save  him  from  the  snow,  it  was  long  into  the 
next  day  before  he  was  rescued  from  the  rum. 

The  morning  following  that  rescue  in  the  snow 
Moonlight  saddled  and  mounted  President.  The 
trails  were  bad  and  the  ford  perilous,  but  neither 
Merchant  Wright  nor  Mr.  Hanrahan  tendered  any 
opinions  against  his  westward  departure  for  the 
Dove's  Nest.  When  a  man  has  attained  to  full  Pan 
handle  standing,  it  isn't  good  form  to  give  him  ad 
vice,  and  Mr.  Hanrahan  and  Merchant  Wright,  in  the 
thorough  paced  instance  of  Moonlight,  wouldn't  have 
dreamed  of  such  a  vulgarity. 

As  Moonlight  made  ready  to  give  President  his 
head,  Mr.  Hanrahan  brought  up  the  name  of  Robert. 
He,  as  well  as  Merchant  Wright,  had  not  failed  to  ob 
serve  that  Moonlight  neither  spoke  of  Robert  nor 
sought  to  see  him,  after  bestowing  upon  him  and 
Locoed  Charlie  a  final  cut  of  that  saving  mule-whip. 
Wearing  this  in  his  mind,  and  being  one  whose  native 
politeness  had  been  polished  and  intensified  in  a  region 
that  went  armed  to  the  teeth,  Mr.  Hanrahan  men 
tioned  Robert  with  a  world  of  prudence.  It  was  safe 
to  assume  that  since  Moonlight  hadn't  spoken  of 
Robert,  he  might  not  care  to  hear  another  name  him. 

216 


MR.  HANRAHAN'S  MESSAGE 

"As  to  the  gent  inside/ '  observed  Mr.  Hanrahan 
carelessly.  "Any  word  for  him,  Cap'n?  Nacherally, 
when  he's  come  to  from  that  rum  we  lavishes  on  him, 
he'll  ast  who  rounds  him  up." 

"If  he  asks,"  replied  Moonlight,  as  though  ready 
with  his  answer,  "tell  him  that  it  was  I  who  brought 
him  in.  You  might  as  well;  if  you  don't,  some  one 
else  will." 

"Which  he  shore  owes  you  his  gratitoode!"  ex 
claimed  Mr.  Hanrahan. 

"That's  the  point,"  went  on  Moonlight  grimly. 
"Tell  him  he  need  feel  no  gratitude — give  me  no 
thanks.  Say  to  him  that  I  once  killed  a  Cheyenne 
who  was  about  to  kill  a  buffalo,  and  then  killed  the 
buffalo  myself." 

"I'll  shore  say  it,"  returned  Mr.  Hanrahan,  "so 
that  every  word  '11  trickle  into  him,  an'  not  a  one  be 
lost." 

"What  do  you  reckon  he  means  by  that  parable, 
Ned?"  asked  Merchant  Wright  when  Mr.  Hanrahan, 
in  confidence  over  a  couple  of  rums,  repeated  the 
Moonlight  message.  "I  don't  see  any  trail  through, 
myself." 

"Nor  me  neither,"  responded  Mr.  Hanrahan,  sip 
ping  his  rum  and  getting  no  enlightenment  therefrom. 
"To  my  mind,  Bob,  that  message  is  one  of  them 
'nigmas,  an'  I  quits  it." 

"I'll  gamble  Old  Tom  Moonlight  knew  what  it 
meant  when  he  framed  it  up,"  said  Merchant  Wright, 
replacing  his  empty  glass  on  the  bar.  "As  you  give 
it  to  this  tenderfoot,  Ned,  watch  his  face  sharp." 

"Good  idee!"  returned  Mr.  Hanrahan  heartily,  be 
ing  as  full  of  curiositv  as  caution,  "good  idee,  Bob! 

217 


THE    THROWBACK 

Shove  that  bottle,  an'  let's  take  another  drink  on 
it." 

When  Robert  was  able  to  see  and  hear  and  talk 
lucidly,  he  complained  of  pains  in  his  chest  and  head. 
The  pains  in  the  head  alarmed  no  one,  it  being  re 
membered  that  he  was  a  tenderfoot,  fresh  from  a 
feeble  East,  and  unused  to  the  liquors  of  a  buffalo 
country.  The  pain  in  the  chest  might  have  a  darker 
meaning.  The  local  conclusion  was  fairly  voiced  by 
Mr.  Hanrahan. 

"You  see,  boys,"  said  that  publican,  addressing  the 
citizenry  of  the  'Dobe  Wall,  in  all  seven  souls  includ 
ing  Merchant  Wright,  "you  see,  boys,  my  rum  has 
considerable  body,  and  most  likely  the  headache  is 
doo  to  them  libations.  Now  as  to  said  aches  in  his 
lungs  I  ain't  so  shore.  He's  a  mighty  puny  substi- 
toote  for  a  man,  an'  it's  plumb  inside  the  bettin'  that 
he  ups  an'  has  pnoomonia  as  the  f roots  of  this.  Which 
he  looks  plenty  pulmonary,  that-away — this  Bar-Z 
person  does!" 

"That's  whatever!"  said  Joe  Gatling. 

Robert  was  not  present  when  his  condition  was  thus 
discussed.  Although  his  wits  and  his  blood  had  re 
sumed  their  wonted  activities,  he  felt  weak  and  dizzy, 
and  had  gone  back  to  the  blanket  couch  prepared  for 
him  in  Mr.  Hanrahan's  back  room.  He  went  the 
more  readily,  since  he  was  assured  by  a  no  less  ex 
pert  opinion  than  Merchant  Wright's  that  the  snow, 
which  was  now  melting  almost  as  rapidly  as  it  had 
fallen,  would  so  swell  the  river  that  to  talk  of  trying 
the  Tascosa  ford  was  merest  madness. 

"Stop  right  here  with  Ned  Hanrahan  and  me," 
said  Mr.  Wright  emphatically.  "It's  the  best  you 

218  " 


MR.  HANRAHAN'S  MESSAGE 

can  do.  If  you  were  to  blunder  into  the  ford  in  its 
present  shape,  you  wouldn't  last  as  long  as  a  dollar 
at  roulette." 

"But  what  am  I  to  do?"  complained  Robert. 
"I've  pressing  business  at  the  Cross-8  ranch." 

"  It  '11  have  to  wait,"  returned  Mr.  Wright.  "  Here 
you  must  stay  until  Scotty  arrives.  That  ought  to 
be  only  a  matter  of  days.  When  Scotty  shows  up, 
he'll  rig  you  out  with  something,  and  put  you  as  far 
as  the  Cross-8." 

"Where  is  the  driver  with  whom  I  came?" 

"Locoed  Charlie?  Oh,  he  lost  so  much  time  foolin' 
round  in  that  norther,  he  had  to  start  east  again  this 
morning." 

Robert  groaned. 

"You  might  as  well  take  it  easy,"  counseled  Mr. 
Wright,  who  had  been  so  long  in  the  West  that  he  ac 
cepted  with  philosophy  such  exigencies  as  blizzards, 
swollen  fords,  broken  axletrees,  rum  and  other  in 
terruptions  to  travel.  "That's  my  word;  take  it 
easy!" 

Moonlight  had  been  gone  four  hours,  and,  despite 
the  snow  that  still  obstructed  the  trail  in  many  melt 
ing  drifts,  was  already  half  way  to  Tascosa. 

"I  have  a  foggy  recollection,"  said  Robert  feebly 
to  the  attentive  Mr.  Hanrahan,  "of  some  one  lashing 
us  through  the  storm." 

"Which  it's  a  heap  nacheral  you-all  should,"  said 
Mr.  Hanrahan  encouragingly,  "seein'  that  Old  Tom 
Moonlight  wore  out  a  twelve-foot  blacksnake  on  you 
an'  Locoed  Charlie." 

"Was  it  this  man  Moonlight?"  asked  Robert,  a  bit 
huskily.  "Did  he  save  my  life?" 

219 


THE    THROWBACK 

"  That's  what  they'd  call  it,  I  reckon,  back  in  the 
East." 

"Where  is  he?"  asked  Robert,  after  a  dubious  wait. 

"Which  he's  gone.  But  he  leaves  a  word  for  you 
in  case  you  takes  to  expressin'  gratitood  an'  thanks — 
him  savin'  your  life  that-away." 

"A  word?" 

"He  lays  a  heap  of  stress  on  the  impropri'ty  of 
feelin'  grateful.  Looks  like  he's  kind  o'  sot  ag'in  you, 
an'  so  he  declines  in  advance  to  be  cumbered  with 
your  thanks.  Likewise  I'm  to  say  that  once,  havin' 
fixed  his  heart  on  killin'  a  partic'lar  buffalo,  he  ups  an' 
stretches  an  Injun  who's  goin'  to  down  it;  after 
which,  said  savage  bein'  rubbed  out,  he  bowls  over 
the  bull  himse'f." 

This  latter  conversation  took  place  in  the  half-dark 
of  Mr.  Hanrahan's  rear  room.  In  spite  of  the  half- 
dark,  however,  and  the  added  drawback  of  Robert's 
native  paleness,  Mr.  Hanrahan  declared  later  that  he 
lost  color. 

"Which  of  course,  Bob,"  observed  Mr.  Hanrahan, 
who  made  a  specialty  of  candor,  "he  don't  lose  much 
because  he  ain't  got  much  to  lose.  Still,  I  reemarks 
some  additional  whiteness  about  the  gills." 

"And  he  don't  say  anything?"  asked  Merchant 
Wright. 

"Never  peeped!  Jest  turns  over  on  his  blankets  so 
's  to  hide  his  face,  an'  goes  to  thinkin'  it  over." 

Moonlight's  message,  obscure  and  yet  ominous, 
troubled  Robert.  He  twisted  the  tangle  of  it  in  his 
thoughts.  It  was  as  Greek;  none  the  less  he  could 
smell  a  threat  in  it. 

''And  yet,"  thought  Robert,  "it  isn't  possible  that 
220 


MR.  HANRAHAN'S  MESSAGE 

he  should  know!  Unless" — and  here  he  broke  into 
a  cold  sweat — "unless  Don  Anton  has  let  the  secret 
out.  But  no;  that  is  beyond  belief!  He  hates  the 
man,  and  would  keep  our  plans  close.  As  for  Pedro 
of  the  Knife,  that  pet  assassin  of  Don  Anton  is  with 
the  Kiowas." 

Robert  strove  to  reassure  himself;  but  do  what  he 
would  a  chill  fear,  like  a  snake,  coiled  itself  about  his 
heart.  There  was  menace  in  that  message.  Either 
it  meant  nothing,  or  it  threatened  his  life.  It  fore 
stalled  his  gratitude  and  refused  it.  The  man  who  had 
saved  his  life  wanted  none  of  his  thanks,  and  told  him 
so.  This  aided  the  theory  that  mischief  was  afoot 
in  that  otherwise  foolish  allegory  of  the  buffalo.  He 
had  saved  Robert's  life,  that  he  himself  might  later 
have  the  joy  of  taking  it!  What  else? 

Robert  frightened  himself  with  these  surmises,  until 
his  coward  heart  was  sick  with  them.  However,  he 
must  go  forward  as  he  and  Don  Anton  had  planned. 
It  was  now  too  late  to  withdraw.  Besides,  weak  as 
he  was  and  craven,  Robert  would  dare  much  rather 
than  lose  the  Gordon  fortune.  If  this  Moonlight, 
who  was  young  Alan,  had  learned  of  the  fortune  that 
waited  for  his  coming  in  old  Somerset,  it  made  the 
greater  reason  for  acting  swiftly.  He  must  get  back 
to  Don  Anton;  get  back  to  the  Bar-Z  with  speed. 
By  discovering  what  Don  Anton  knew,  as  well  as  what 
Aunt  Tilda  and  the  others  knew,  he  might  gain  some 
half -clear  knowledge  of  the  present  trend  of  events. 
He  could  then  guess  as  to  what  new  facts  had  come 
into  the  possession  of  that  hated  one  who  stood  so 
much  in  his  way. 

"And  to  think,"  groaned  Robert,  "that  I,  who  left 
221 


THE    THROWBACK 

the  Chesapeake  to  avoid  him,  should  by  that  move 
bring  him  to  light !  Was  ever  man  so  cursed?  Unless 
removed,  this  savage  Alan  will  wrest  from  me  the 
Gordon  fortune!  He  has  but  to  discover  himself,  and 
I  am  lost — unless — unless  Don  Anton  and  his  Kiowas 


can  save  me." 


222 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

THE  PROFESSOR  ENCOUNTERS  JEFF 

IT  was  only  a  matter  of  days,  as  Merchant  Wright  had 
foretold,  when  Scotty,  the  government  mail  contrac 
tor,  came  down  from  Tascosa.  The  days  had  seemed 
as  so  many  ages  to  Robert,  who  was  nervously  eager 
to  see  Don  Anton.  He  felt  surrounded  by  dark  un 
certainties,  the  mildest  of  them  a  deadly  peril. 

"Would  Scotty  take  him  to  the  Cross-8?" 

Scotty  was  in  no  sort  hard  to  deal  with.  He  would 
convey  Robert  as  far  as  Tascosa,  and  leave  it  to  an 
underling  to  take  him  from  Tascosa  to  the  Cross-8. 

"You  see/'  explained  Scotty,  "the  Red  Bull  an' 
me  ain't  what  you-all  might  term  thick  as  thieves. 
For  which  reason  I  don't  care,  personal,  to  introode 
on  his  privacy.  However,  one  of  my  drivers  will 
freight  you  over,  so  it's  all  the  same." 

Scotty,  in  elaboration,  stated  that  the  coolness  be 
tween  himself  and  the  Red  Bull  dated  from  that 
time  long  before  when  he,  Scotty,  criticised  the 
beauty  of  the  Red  Bull's  Mexican  wife. 

"Which  he  never  likes  them  remarks,"  said  Scotty; 
"an'  while  the  Red  Bull  ain't  much  on  revenge,  pre- 
ferrin'  a  quiet  life,  he's  a  gent  who  never  forgets  nor 
forgives.  I  says  all  this,  as  I  thinks  it  doo  you  to 
explain  why  I  quits  your  company  at  Tascosa.  I 
don't  want  you-all  to  regyard  the  swap  of  drivers  as 
invidious." 

223 


THE    THROWBACK 

"I  shall  understand/7  returned  Robert,  who  would 
have  willingly  missed  the  talkative  Scotty's  apolo 
gies.  "In  fact,  I'm  the  last  to  ask  any  gentleman 
to  go  where  he  might  get  into  trouble.7' 

"Me?  Trouble?  The  Red  Bull?"  Scotty  blew 
through  his  warlike  nose  ferociously.  "Now  I  shore 
like  that!  Why,  stranger,  if  I  thought  my  goin'  to 
the  Cross-8  would  get  a  rise  outen  the  Red  Bull,  I'd 
hook  up  an'  start  now!  No;  you've  got  him  guessed 
wrong.  The  Red  Bull  ' buffaloes'  them  Mexicans  of 
his;  but  if  a  clean  strain  white  man  was  to  show  up 
in  front  of  him,  he'd  take  water  like  a  mink." 

"But  I  thought,"  interrupted  Robert  hurriedly, 
not  a  trifle  disconcerted  at  the  thought  that  he  had 
offended  the  important  Scotty,  "that  you  said  you 
didn't  want  to  meet  Captain  Ruggles." 

"Not  through  fear,"  observed  Scotty  in  a  high  key 
of  correction;  "delicacy!  Which  I'm  too  delicate 
to  go  pirootin'  'round  where  the  sight  of  me  breeds 
disagreeable  mem'ries.  If  the  Red  Bull  gets  a  glimpse 
of  me,  it's  bound  to  make  him  think  of  that  former 
Mexican  wife;  and,  while  no  one  that  I  knows  of 
fears  him,  I'm  too  much  of  a  Christian  gent  myse'f 
to  make  even  an  enemy  suffer  onreasonable." 

Robert  said  nothing  to  this,  and  the  differences 
subsisting  between  Scotty  and  the  Red  Bull  were 
permitted  to  fall  to  the  floor. 

"Be  ready  to-morry  mornin',"  said  Scotty,  as  he 
turned  into  Mr.  Hanrahan's  bar.  "Which  we'll  pull 
out  about  second  drink  time." 

"Eight  o'clock,  he  means,"  said  Merchant  Wright 
interpreting.  The  colloquy  took  place  in  his  em 
porium,  and  he  understood  Robert's  look  of  fog. 

224, 


THE  PROFESSOR  MEETS  JEFF 

"  You'll  start  at  eight;  and  that  should  land  you  in 
Tascosa  by  dark.  The  next  day  will  set  you  down 
at  the  Cross-8." 

Robert  was  by  no  means  a  hale  man.  That  pain 
in  the  chest  increased,  or  rather  it  held  its  aching  own 
in  a  sullen,  stubborn  way,  and  the  learned  Mr.  Han- 
rahan  still  feared  a  worst  result. 

"It  may  not  come  off  for  a  month  yet/'  he  said  to 
Merchant  Wright;  "that  pnoomonia  I  means.  But, 
you  hear  me,  Bob!  that  blizzard  puts  a  crimp 
into  this  Blainey  party  what's  goin'  to  carry  him 
off." ' 

As  the  buckboard  made  ready  for  a  start,  Mr.  Han- 
rahan  appeared  with  a  gallon  jug  of  rum. 

"You  may  need  it,"  said  the  kindly  Mr.  Hanra- 
han  to  Robert. 

Robert  thanked  Mr.  Hanrahan,  but  remonstrated 
against  the  rum.  He  said  it  made  him  ill. 

"Chuck  it  aboard,  Ned!"  interposed  Scotty,  gath 
ering  up  the  reins.  He  was  no  one  to  leave  a  jug  of 
rum  behind.  "Chuck  it  aboard!  You  can  gamble 
I'll  see  that  he  takes  it  at  proper  intervals." 

Scotty  did  not  keep  this  compact  with  Mr.  Han 
rahan,  who,  relying  on  it,  sent  the  rum  along.  In 
stead,  Scotty  saw  that  he,  himself,  took  that  remedy 
at  highly  improper  intervals,  and  as  an  upcome,  drove 
into  Tascosa  about  sundown,  singing  of  liberty  and 
the  glories  of  a  republic. 

The  next  afternoon  saw  Robert  at  the  Cross-8. 
He  drew  a  long,  albeit  painful  breath  of  relief,  for 
those  aches  held  by  him  with  malignant  loyalty,  and 
he  felt  as  might  Magellan  when  he  had  circumnavi 
gated  the  globe, 

225 


THE   THROWBACK 

Robert  found  Don  Anton  waiting,  his  shoulder  out 
of  its  bandages.  There  is  such  a  commodity  hi  na 
ture  as  the  law  of  compensation.  The  Panhandle 
may  be  quick  at  inflicting  wounds;  it  is  just  as  quick 
at  healing  them,  and  Don  Anton's  knife-pierced 
shoulder  was  now  as  good  as  new.  Also,  he  was 
fumingly  impatient  to  go  upon  that  congenial  busi 
ness  of  vengeance. 

"Did  you  bring  the  paper ?"  queried  Don  Anton, 
the  moment  he  could  get  Robert  alone. 

"It  is  here,"  replied  Robert,  putting  into  the  dark, 
slim  hands  of  Don  Anton  a  document  which  he  took 
from  his  pocket.  "There  it  is  in  black  and  white: 
'Blainey  against  Moonlight.'  Here,  too,  is  the  patent 
for  the  land.  It  covers  the  square  mile — a  full  sec 
tion  La  fact — on  which  the  Dove's  Nest  stands." 

"You're  sure?" 

"I  have  the  word  of  the  best  lawyer  in  Austin. 
Besides,  they  knew  in  the  land  office  the  section  that 
had  held  the  old  trading  post." 

"Bueno!"  cried  Don  Anton,  running  over  the 
papers.  "They  are  very  necessary.  That  fool  Pedro 
of  the  Knife  would  be  willing  to  play  sheriff,  or  as 
sassin,  or  anything  we  please  without  the  papers. 
But  for  myself,  and  particularly  since  we  are  in  Texas 
and  not  in  New  Mexico  where  I  live,  I  prefer  to  have 
them.  Then  when  this  Moonlight  is  blotted  out, 
we  can  show  that  he  was  in  the  wrong  and  we  in  the 
right." 

"I  thought  you  said,"  observed  Robert  tremu 
lously,  "that  the  work  would  be  done  by  Kiowas, 
and  later  be  laid  at  their  door." 

"So  I  did!  So  it  will!  However,  Indians  some- 
226 


THE  PROFESSOR  MEETS  JEFF 

times  tell  their  agents,  and  it  is  best  to  be  ready 
with  explanations." 

"The  Kiowas  will  do  the  work?" 

"They  were  not  so  ready  as  I  could  wish.  I  had 
thought  they  would  be  headlong  to  revenge  Sun  Boy, 
whom  this  Moonlight  knifed.  But  no;  the  scoundrels 
said  that  Sun  Boy  died  a  long  time  ago,  and  their 
hearts  had  forgotten  him.  Besides,  they  pointed  out 
that  his  death  was  fair.  It  took  a  wagon-load  of 
calico  and  blankets  and  tobacco  and  rum,  and  all 
the  eloquence  of  Pedro  of  the  Knife,  to  bring  them 
to  terms." 

"But  they  have  agreed?" 

"It  is  settled!  I  have  had  word  from  him,  and 
Pedro  of  the  Knife  will  bring  a  band  of  the  young 
fighting  bucks  across  the  Canadian  whenever  we  are 
ready." 

"And  that  will  be  when?" 

"One  week  from  to-day.  I  shall  send  a  messen 
ger  to-night,  and  tell  Pedro  of  the  Knife." 

"You  are  sure  we  can  rely  on  them?"  asked  Rob 
ert,  whose  heart  could  ever  be  depended  upon  to 
turn  weak  at  a  crisis. 

"Have  courage,  Amigo!"  returned  Don  Anton,  not 
without  the  suggestion  of  a  sneer.  "Those  who  will 
follow  Pedro  of  the  Knife  across  the  Canadian  are 
one  and  all  his  blood  relatives.  They  are  brothers, 
nephews,  and  cousins  of  his  mother.  Rest  sure,  he 
would  never  start  unless  he  were  as  certain  of  them 
as  he  is  of  himself." 

Robert  planned  to  go  on  to  the  Bar-Z.  The  week 
that  would  intervene  before  Pedro  of  the  Knife,  in 
his  unusual  role  of  peace-officer,  together  with  his 

227 


THE    THROWBACK 

unique  posse  comitatus  of  Kiowas,  descended  upon 
the  Dove's  Nest,  gave  him  ample  time. 

Don  Anton  was  inclined  to  oppose  his  going  to  the 
Bar-Z. 

"It  would  be  better  if  you  stayed  here  until  it  is 
over,"  he  argued. 

Robert,  however,  wouldn't  listen.  He  must  see 
Aunt  Tilda,  and  discover  whether  anything  had  been 
uncovered  during  his  absence  that  should  have  taught 
either  her  or  "the  runagate  Alan" — as  Robert  in 
variably  dubbed  Moonlight  in  his  thoughts — their 
blood  relationship  to  one  another,  and  per  conse 
quence  the  estate  in  old  Somerset  waiting  so  patiently 
the  coming  of  the  heir.  He  must  be  clear  on  that 
point.  That  word  of  obscure  menace,  delivered  by 
the  mouth  of  Mr.  Hanrahan,  continued  to  haunt  him. 
Therefore,  he  must  go  to  the  Bar-Z.  He  pledged 
his  word  with  Don  Anton  to  return  by  the  fourth 
day. 

"About  Captain  Ruggles!"  suddenly  exclaimed 
Robert.  He  had  not  thought  of  the  Red  Bull,  and 
the  attitude  of  that  person  was  important.  "Does 
he  know  of  our  design?" 

"He  has  purposely  kept  himself  in  ignorance.  It 
is  all  right!  He  will  not  help;  neither  will  he  hurt 
our  enterprise.  So  that  none  of  his  people  are  in 
volved,  and  the  skirts  of  the  Cross-8  are  kept  clear, 
he  does  not  care." 

"Did  you  speak  to  him?" 

£"I  attempted  to,  but  he  begged  me  to  desist.  'I 
don't  want  to  hear,'  said  he.  'You  know  my  motto: 
Let  every  man  kill  his  own  snakes!'  But  he's  with 
us  passively;  for  you  must  know  that  the  pony  Pedro 

228 


THE  PROFESSOR  MEETS  JEFF 

of  the  Knife  was  riding,  when  he  became  Pedro  of 
the  Ear,  wore  the  Cross-8  brand;  and  this  Moon 
light,  on  seeing  it,  said  some  things  about  the  Red 
Bull  that  struck  the  latter  gray." 

Robert  proposed  an  early  morning  start  for  the 
Bar-Z;  but  as  events  befell  he  didn't  make  it.  That 
night  the  pains  in  his  lungs  were  multiplied  by  ten; 
he  choked,  and  drew  his  breath  with  difficulty,  A 
fever  set  furiously  in,  and  there  were  moments  when 
his  mind  wandered. 

The  Red  Bull  was  in  deep  concern.  Like  Mr. 
Hanrahan  and  those  practitioners  of  the  'Dobe  Walls, 
he  pinned  his  faith  to  rum.  The  solicitous  Red  Bull 
gave  Robert  unlimited  rum,  detailed  a  brace  of  serv 
itors  to  keep  watch  and  watch  over  his  ravings,  and 
sent  word  to  the  Bar-Z.  In  the  morning,  instead  of 
Robert  riding  away  to  Aunt  Tilda,  the  Red  Bull's 
courier,  who  had  spurred  a  pony  to  a  standstill 
carrying  the  word,  was  telling  her  of  his  dangerous 
plight. 

Aunt  Tilda,  her  heart  in  her  throat  at  the  thought 
of  Robert's  peril,  began  at  once  to  make  ready  for 
the  journey  to  the  Cross-8.  Any  sickness  was  in  its 
way  a  challenge  to  the  sympathetic  Aunt  Tilda, 
which  she  invariably  accepted.  That  it  was  her  be 
loved  Robert  who  lay  stricken,  made  the  challenge 
peremptory.  Within  the  half-hour  after  receiving 
the  Red  Bull's  word  of  Robert's  illness,  Aunt  Tilda 
and  the  Professor  in  the  surrey,  with  Cato  to  drive, 
and  Ethel  on  Jet,  were  on  their  way  to  the  Cross-8. 
Once  arrived,  Aunt  Tilda  was  quickly  at  the  pillow 
of  the  smitten  one,  and  thereafter  she  hardly  left  it 
night  or  day. 

229 


THE    THROWBACK 

"I'm  sorry,"  explained  the  Red  Bull  to  the  Pro 
fessor,  for  he  felt  as  though  he  wanted  to  report  to 
somebody,  "but  I  had  nothing  but  rum  to  give  him. 
As  for  a  doctor,  there  isn't  one  nearer  than  Dodge, 
and  the  round  trip  would  take  a  month." 

"Rum!"  repeated  the  Professor.  "I  have  ever 
heard  it  spoken  of  as  matchless  for  maladies  that 
touch  the  lungs." 

The  Red  Bull  felt  easier.  He  looked  for  Robert's 
death;  and,  being  a  sensitive  spirit,  he  did  not  want 
it  thought  that  he,  with  his  prescriptions  of  rum,  had 
contributed  to  bring  it  about. 

"Rum  is  what  we  use  on  the  Canadian,"  re 
turned  the  Red  Bull  doubtfully;  "but  I  confess  it 
doesn't  always  cure.  However,  we  must  hope  for 
the  best." 

Ethel  and  the  Professor  rendered  what  aid  they 
might  to  Aunt  Tilda,  in  her  self-appointed  duties  as 
Robert's  nurse.  However,  there  was  little  they  could 
do;  they  must  wait  the  climax  of  the  disease,  dis 
posing  of  their  hours  meanwhile  as  they  best  might. 
Ethel,  while  distressed  as  much  for  Aunt  Tilda  as  for 
Robert,  put  in  the  time  very  well  with  the  sprightly 
Dona  Inez. 

The  lonely  Professor,  between  whom  and  the  Red 
Bull  there  was  little  in  common,  and  who  cared  for 
Don  Anton  nothing  at  all,  didn't  fare  so  happily. 
He  wandered  about  the  Cross-8  like  an  uneasy  ghost, 
and  in  the  end  saddled  Socrates — who  performed 
not  only  as  the  Professor's  charger,  but  as  the  off 
mule  in  the  surrey  team — and  began  to  roam  the 
region  round  about. 

It  was  the  third  day  at  the  Cross-8,  when  the  Pro- 
230 


THE  PROFESSOR  MEETS  JEFF 

fessor  decided  to  push  his  explorations  to  the  east 
ward.  Mounted  on  the  faithful  Socrates,  he  followed 
the  Canadian  until,  passing  the  first  point  of  rocks,  he 
found  himself  in  that  grove  of  cottonwoods  wherein 
had  stood  the  lodge  of  Ironjacket.  The  Professor 
recognized  his  surroundings,  and  remembered  the 
grove's  former  inhabitants.  He  resolved  upon  a 
morning  call  on  Ironjacket. 

"Perchance,  I  might  find  him  more  communica 
tive,"  thought  the  Professor,  recalling  the  wooden 
taciturnity  of  Ironjacket  on  the  only  occasion  when 
he  beheld  him.  "In  any  event,  there  are  the  wife 
and  daughter — Firewind  and  Southlight,  I  believe 
Mr.  Home  called  them!  The  daughter  Southlight 
was  extremely  pleasing." 

The  Professor  crossed  the  cottonwood  grove  and, 
after  a  little  search,  found  the  dead  ashes  of  Iron- 
jacket's  camp-fire. 

"These  ashes  are  very  old,"  observed  the  Pro 
fessor,  whose  habit  it  was  when  alone  to  hold  long 
talks  with  himself.  "Those  interesting  savages  have 
evidently  been  gone  from  this  spot  for  months.  Yes" 
— here  the  Professor  looked  about  him — "even  the 
last  trace  of  their  skin  house  has  been  obliterated." 

The  Professor  sighed,  and  mounting  Socrates  kept 
on  toward  the  Monk's  Hill,  the  phlegmatic  Socrates 
at  a  walk.  He  was  on  that  stretch  of  the  trail  that 
lay  between  the  toe  of  the  Monk's  Hill  and  the  river. 
His  thoughts  were  running  sadly;  for  the  Professor 
had  social  instincts,  and  a  chat  with  the  Ironjacket 
family  would  have  pleased  him  vastly. 

"They  were  such  children  of  nature,"  mused  the 
Professor.  "So  artless,  so  simple,  so  unconventional! 

231 


THE    THROWBACK 

And   the   daughter,   Southlight! — I   thought  her  a 
pleasing  girl!" 

Something  scuttered  through  the  grass  and  knocked 
the  bark  from  the  root  of  a  cottonwood,  just  where 
it  entered  the  ground.  Almost  at  the  same  moment 
came  the  crack  of  a  rifle. 

"Ah!"  said  the  Professor,  "some  hunter  gunning. 
He  shot  rather  close  to  Socrates  and  myself!  An 
accident  of  course!  I  do  not,  however,  discern  the 
animal  at  which  he  aimed." 

Since  the  Professor  was  domiciled  at  the  Bar-Z, 
he  had  so  far  yielded  to  the  customs  of  the  Panhandle 
as  to  don  a  wide-spreading  cow  hat  and  carry  a  rifle 
on  those  jaunts  which  he  took  in  company  with  the 
invaluable  Socrates.  Once  or  twice  he  had  brought 
home  an  antelope,  and  his  bosom  swelled  with  prim 
itive  pride  as  he  presented  it  to  Aunt  Tilda. 

"A  little  trophy  of  the  chase,  my  dear  Madam," 
he  would  say.  "Permit  me  to  lay  it  at  your  feet." 

Aunt  Tilda  was  wont  on  those  gallant  occasions  to 
thank  the  Professor,  say  he  was  a  perfect  Nimrod, 
and  close  the  incident  by  requesting  him,  instead  of 
laying  his  trophy  at  her  feet,  to  take  it  to  the 
kitchen  and  deliver  it  into  the  hands  of  the  Mexi 
can  cook. 

The  Professor,  now  when  his  ears  were  gladdened 
by  the  report  of  the  rifle,  brought  his  own  Winchester 
briskly  to  the  fore,  cocked  it  with  a  resounding 
"  kluck-kluck ! "  and  peered  about  him.  If  the  hunter 
who  fired  the  shot  had  missed,  then  he,  the  Professor, 
would  remedy  the  mishap  with  his  Winchester.  The 
difficulty  was  that,  peer  about  as  he  might,  he  could 
see  no  moving  wild  creature  at  which  to  shoot. 

232 


THE  PROFESSOR  MEETS  JEFF 

"Strange!"  he  exclaimed.  "Certainly  the  person, 
whoever  he  is,  shot  at  something." 

Even  as  he  spoke  a  second  bullet  scuttered  through 
the  grass  not  ten  feet  from  the  learned  nose  of  Soc 
rates,  and  chipped  another  piece  of  bark  from  a  sec 
ond  cottonwood.  The  Professor's  eyes  followed  the 
line  of  the  bullet  to  the  south  and  east.  There,  about 
six  hundred  yards  away,  in  a  halo  of  blue  smoke, 
stood  Jeff  Home. 

"  Bless  me ! "  cried  the  Professor.  "  It's  Mr.  Home ! 
How  interesting!  I  shall  find  company  after  all." 

The  Professor  drove  his  heels  into  the  flanks  of 
Socrates,  and,  to  the  scandal  of  that  sleepy  animal, 
urged  him  to  a  canter.  He  made  straight  for  Jeff, 
who  was  so  overcome  at  the  spectacle  that  he  even 
forgot  to  reload  his  buffalo  gun,  and  now  stood  gaz 
ing  at  the  oncoming  scientist  with  hand-shaded 
eyes. 

"Well,  I'm  a  Siwash,"  exclaimed  Jeff  in  profound 
amazement,  "if  it  ain't  the  Professor!  You  must 
pardon  me,  my  dear  sir.  I  shore  took  you  for  a 
Mexican,  or  I'd  never  gone  to  cuttin'  up  the  grass 
permiscus  about  the  hoofs  of  your  mule." 

"Then  you  were  shooting  at  Socrates  and  me!" 
returned  the  astonished  Professor.  "May  I  crave 
the  reason  of  this  outrage,  sir?" 

The  Professor's  eye  flashed,  and  the  muzzle  of  the 
Winchester  began  to  cover  Jeff  Home.  That  gen 
tleman,  so  far  from  being  discouraged  by  these  symp 
toms,  viewed  them  with  the  utmost  delight. 

"Babes  an'  sucklings!"  shouted  Jeff.  "He's  as 
game  as  a  trant'ler,  I  do  believe!"  he  cried,  with  a 
kind  of  ecstasy;  "he'd  drill  me  if  I  so  much  as 

233 


THE    THROWBACK 

bats  an  eye  or  wags  a  y'ear!  Professor,  I'm  proud 
I  knows  you!  You're  shorely  four  kings  an'  an 
ace!" 

"Whether  I'm  the  hand  of  cards  you  describe  or 
no,"  responded  the  Professor,  severely,  "I  must  con 
tinue  to  insist  on  your  reasons  for  aiming  at  Socrates 
and  me." 

"Which  I  didn't  really  aim  at  you  none,  Professor," 
said  Jeff,  making  an  effort  to  curb  his  exuberance. 
"If  I  had,  d'ye  see,  I'd  nacherally  emptied  you  out  o' 
that  saddle  a  whole  lot.  No,  I  takes  you  for  one  of 
the  Red  Bull's  Mexicans,  an'  was  merely  givin'  notice 
that  it  wasn't  my  day  to  receive.  Bein'  it's  you, 
however,  of  course  that's  different.  An'  I  tells  you 
ag'in,  Professor,  I'm  plumb  glad  to  see  you.  Come 
up  to  camp." 

Jeff  had  no  trouble  in  convincing  the  Professor  of 
his  friendly  intentions. 

"Only  an  instance  of  mistaken  identity,  then," 
said  the  Professor,  pleasantly. 

"Preecisely,"  agreed  Jeff.  "I  shorely  never  knew 
my  learned  friend  in  that  hat." 

Jeff  had  pitched  a  big  wall  tent,  at  a  little  distance 
from  the  mouth  of  what  he  termed  his  mine.  He 
didn't  care  for  the  tent,  as  he  assured  the  Professor, 
but  it  gave  him  standing  with  his  Mexicans. 

"Which  I  does  it,"  vouchsafed  Jeff,  "to  mark  a 
social  sep'ration  between  me  an'  them  greasers.  To 
be  shore  I  could  draw  the  line  with  my  gun,  but  I 
prefers  the  tent  as  less  toomultuous." 

At  noon  the  cook  dished  up  a  wild  gobbler,  which 
the  fatal  Jeff  had  killed  by  moonlight  on  the  Monk's 
Hill  the  night  before. 

234 


THE  PROFESSOR  MEETS  JEFF 

"Plenty  of  pine  nuts!"  explained  Jeff.  "Thar'll 
be  no  end  of  turkeys  this  fall  an'  winter." 

Jeff  showed  the  Professor  his  tunnel,  while  the 
Mexicans  took  a  nooning. 

"It's  Old  Tom  Moonlight's  idee/'  said  Jeff.  "He 
says  thar's  treasure  enough,  in  the  bowels  of  that 
sand-hill,  to  make  us  all  as  rich  as  Creosote." 

"Croesus!"  corrected  the  Professor.  "Old  Tom 
Moonlight  is  that  young  gentleman  who  returned 
Don  Anton  his  knife,  sending  it  through  his  shoulder?" 

"He'd  have  stuck  it  through  his  neck,"  said  Jeff, 
who  felt  as  though  the  inaccuracy  of  his  young  chief 
called  for  defense,  "only  he  was  savin'  the  rico  to 
play  with." 

"But  the  treasure?" 

"You  know  as  much  as  I  do,  Professor.  As  I 
saveys  the  layout,  the  treasure,  whatever  it  is,  lays 
buried  in  the  hill  proper.  Now  I've  got  to  tunnel 
through  this  sand,  folio  win',  d'ye  see,  the  little  water 


course." 


Jeff  pointed  to  the  thin,  clear  thread  of  water 
that  trickled  from  the  mouth  of  his  tunnel. 

"The  diffukelty  lies  yere,"  resumed  Jeff,  with  a 
great  air  of  judgment.  "Bein'  she's  wind-formed 
that-away,  the  sand  in  the  hill's  as  fine  as  snuff,  an' 
it  keeps  perkolatin'  through  the  cracks  of  my  timber- 
in'.  Four  times,  Professor,  it's  choked  up  on  me. 
Some  day  it  may  all  cave  in,  an'  then  I'll  have  to 
call  for  a  new  deck  an'  begin  the  game  afresh." 

Even  as  Jeff  spoke,  and  as  though  his  words  were 
a  signal,  there  came  a  soft,  pouring,  muffled  roar. 
A  cloud  of  sand  as  fine  as  flour  arose  and  hung  over 
the  face  of  the  hill  like  a  cloud,  hiding  from  view  the 

235 


THE    THROWBACK 

mouth  of  the  tunnel.  The  pouring  roar  continued 
for  the  space  of  five  minutes,  during  which  Jeff  pointed 
toward  the  yellow  cloud  with  despairing  finger. 

"Thar!"  he  cried.  "She's  gone  an'  done  it!  The 
whole  binged  tunnel's  filled  up  from  r'ar  to  front, 
an'  yere's  Jeff  Home  where  he  started!" 

"Shall  you  give  it  up?"  asked  the  Professor  anx 
iously,  for  he  sympathized  with  the  angry  despair 
of  Jeff. 

"  Give  up  nothin' ! "  retorted  Jeff  viciously.  "  Which 
I'll  find  that  treasure,  you  bet!  if  I  has  to  pack  this 
hill  away  in  my  hat!" 


236 


CHAPTER  XIX 

ETHEL  THE  UNMAIDENLY 

THREE  days  after  Robert  was  taken  down  Don 
Anton's  courier  to  Pedro  of  the  Knife  returned.  He 
came  in,  weary  and  heavy-eyed  from  long  riding 
without  sleep.  He  had  delivered  Don  Anton's  mes 
sage  to  Pedro  of  the  Knife;  that  reliable  assassin 
with  his  Kiowas  would  be  on  hand. 

"Pedro  of  the  Knife,"  said  the  courier,  "sends  word 
that  he  and  his  Kiowas  will  be  only  a  day  behind 
me.  They  will  come  with  sharp  knives  and  full 
cartridge  belts,  and  their  faces  will  be  colored  for 
war." 

"That  is  well, "  responded  Don  Anton.  "  You  have 
reported  to  me,  Juan;  see  now  that  you  do  not  make 
a  second  report  to  somebody  else.  Too  many  re 
ports  are  bad — for  the  messenger";  and  the  young 
rico  gave  a  warning  scowl. 

"Don  Anton  need  have  no  fears,"  returned  Juan. 
"I  have  now  no  memory  of  what  word  Pedro  of  the 
Knife  sent  back.  I  recall  nothing;  neither  why  I 
went  nor  why  I  returned." 

"That  is  as  it  should  be,  Juan.  A  short  memory 
lengthens  life,  the  padres  say.  Here  is  money  for 
your  hard  riding." 

Don  Anton  clinked  down  a  handful  of  silver  into 
237 


THE    THROWBACK 

Juan's  expectant  claw.  It  had  the  effect  of  wiping 
away  much  of  the  weariness  from  that  faithful  in 
dividual's  face. 

"With  a  little  luck  from  the  saints,"  quoth  Don 
Anton,  "you  may  now  play  a  week  at  monte  before 
you  are  again  poor." 

Robert's  illness  did  not  disable  Don  Anton's  plans. 
He  resolved  to  send  Pedro  of  the  Knife  upon  his 
Dove's  Nest  mission  of  murder,  without  reference  to 
Robert. 

"I  have  the  papers,"  reflected  Don  Anton.  "  What 
more  should  I  require  that  this  Robert  could  furnish? 
Also,  I  shall  be  careful  to  have  Pedro  of  the  Knife 
remember  that  he  goes  for  this  gringo,  Robert,  and 
not  for  me.  His  being  ill  will  be  all  the  better. 
Besides,  he  could  do  nothing  if  he  were  well.  He  has 
no  courage,  no  force.  His  heart  would  fail  him;  he 
would  only  be  in  the  way." 

Pedro  of  the  Knife  was  as  good  as  his  message. 
The  evening  following  the  day  that  witnessed  the 
arrival  of  Juan,  Pedro  of  the  Knife  rode  into  the 
Cross-8.  He  came  alone,  and  to  the  two  or  three 
Mexicans  with  whom  he  passed  a  word,  he  said  that 
he  had  been  to  Tascosa.  Not  one  hint  did  he  breathe 
concerning  those  Rabbit  Ear  Kiowas  who,  a  mile 
to  the  west,  splashed  across  the  Canadian  in  his  com 
pany  that  very  afternoon.  He  reserved  those  tidings 
for  Don  Anton. 

"Where  are  they?"  asked  the  young  rico,  when 
Pedro  of  the  Knife  had  told  him  how  all  things 
were  in  readiness  for  the  red  work  he  contemplated. 

"I  left  them  camped  in  Chico  Canon  ten  miles 
away.  No  one  goes  there:  they  will  not  be  seen. 

238 


ETHEL   THE    UNMAIDENLY 

If  they  are,  they  will  say  they  have  come  to  hunt 
the  buffalo." 

Don  Anton  considered. 

"How  far  are  they  from  the  Dove's  Nest?"  he 
asked. 

"Four  hours." 

"Here,  then,  are  the  papers,"  and  Don  Anton  gave 
Pedro  of  the  Knife  the  documents  which  Robert 
had  brought  up  from  Austin.  "Give  heed  to  their 
safety,  for  they  must  not  be  lost.  By  these  papers 
this  Moonlight  is  a  robber,  and  has  stolen  the 
Dove's  Nest.  It  is  now  for  you  to  take  it  from 
him.  He  will  fight;  but  you  and  your  Kiowas  must 
not  mind  that.  Remember,  he  has  wronged  me!" 

"Also  I  shall  not  forget,"  replied  Pedro  of  the 
Knife,  "that  I  myself  have  but  one  ear.  But  you 
speak  only  of  my  Kiowas.  Are  none  of  our  people 
from  the  Concha  to  go?" 

"None!  I  have  reflected  and  it  is  better  that  they 
do  not.  Besides,  you  will  deal  with  but  two  men: 
this  Moonlight  and  the  one  whom  he  calls  'Red 
River.'  " 

"But  that  Home?— who  is  a  fiend  to  fight!" 

"He  is  digging  in  the  sand-hill  that  lies  against 
that  second  point  of  rocks  to  the  east.  I  do  not 
know  why  he  digs;  but  when  I  heard,  I  did  not  let 
the  Cross-8  people  disturb  him.  He  is  less  in  our 
way  where  he  is.  When  you  have  finished  at  the 
Dove's  Nest,  you  shall  send  your  Kiowas  to  ask  why 
he  digs.  A  Kiowa  does  not  object  to  a  scalp  because 
it  is  streaked  with  gray  hairs." 

Pedro  of  the  Knife  licked  his  lips.  The  prospective 
taking  off  of  Jeff  appealed  to  his  sense  of  humor. 

239 


THE    THROWBACK 

"He  will  be  so  amazed,"  said  Pedro  of  the  Knife, 
"to  be  shot  down  in  that  prairie-dog  burrow  he  is 
digging." 

Don  Anton  fell  to  thinking. 

"About  the  Dove's  Nest,"  said  he:  "Your  best 
time  should  be  at  daybreak.  No,  not  to-morrow; 
the  morning  of  the  day  after.  It  should  be  a  sur 
prise,  you  understand?" 

Pedro  of  the  Knife  replied  that  he  thoroughly  un 
derstood.  He  seemed  hurt  at  the  intimation  that, 
by  any  stress  of  noonday  gallantry,  he  might  be  found 
so  weakly  brave  as  to  give  the  hated  Moonlight 
notice  of  his  coming. 

"No;  we  shall  knock  them  on  their  heads  as  they 
lie  snoring,"  he  said. 

"I  think,"  remarked  Don  Anton,  "that  I'll  ride 
over  to  your  Kiowas  to-morrow  night.  This  Moon 
light  deserves  the  fire,  and  I  should  like  to  see  that." 

"They  shall  take  him  alive!"  cried  Pedro  of  the 
Knife,  in  ecstasy  at  the  notion.  "They  step  like  cats, 
my  Kiowas;  they  may  easily  make  him  captive. 
Then  it  shall  be  the  fire,  as  you  say.  That  should 
much  rejoice  my  Kiowas,  for  most  of  them  are  young, 
and  never  saw  a  man  burned  at  the  stake." 

"I  shall  come, "  observed  Don  Anton,  who  appeared 
to  relish  the  thought  of  Moonlight  among  the  crack 
ling  fagots. 

"If  we  attack  at  daybreak — and  my  Kiowas,  as 
you  know,  will  not  fight  in  the  night — we  shall  start 
for  the  Dove's  Nest  an  hour  after  midnight." 

"If  I  should  not  appear,"  said  Don  Anton,  as  Pedro 
of  the  Knife  mounted  his  pony  for  the  Kiowa  camp, 
"do  not  wait  for  me." 

240 


ETHEL    THE    UNMAIDENLY 

"  I  understand,"  returned  the  other  as  he  spurred 
away. 

Robert's  illness  reached  its  climax,  and  he  safely 
passed  what  Aunt  Tilda  regarded  as  the  danger 
point. 

"Now/'  she  thought,  "care  and  good  nursing  should 
bring  my  boy  around." 

Aunt  Tilda  felt  as  though  a  stone  had  been  rolled 
from  her  heart. 

It  was  the  day  after  the  conference  between  Don 
Anton  and  Pedro  of  the  Knife.  Aunt  Tilda,  worn 
with  her  almost  ceaseless  vigils,  and  reassured  as  to 
Robert's  condition,  withdrew  from  the  sick-room  to 
steal  a  little  sleep.  She  left  an  old  Mexican  crone, 
Juanita,  to  look  after  the  wants  of  Robert.  The  invalid 
was  in  a  fitful  slumber,  full  of  starts  and  waken 
ings;  but  there  would  at  the  worst  be  nothing  re 
quired  beyond  pouring  an  occasional  cup  of  water, 
and  old  Juanita  could  attend  to  that. 

Don  Anton,  with  Aunt  Tilda  gone,  thought  it  a  fair 
time  to  have  a  talk  with  Robert. 

"You  may  go,"  said  Don  Anton  to  Juanita,  as  he 
entered  the  sick-room. 

Juanita  was  slow  in  starting,  not  being  settled  in 
her  own  aged  mind  as  to  whether  she  should  go  or  no. 

"Tamos/"  cried  Don  Anton,  with  such  a  ferocious 
emphasis  that  it  sent  old  Juanita  whirling  through 
the  door,  and  into  the  patio,  as  though  she  had  re 
ceived  a  shove. 

That  "Famos/"  not  only  expelled  old  Juanita,  but 
it  aroused  Robert.  His  hollow  eyes  opened  wide  at 
sight  of  Don  Anton. 

"It  is  nothing,"  said  the  young  rico.  "I  came 
241 


THE    THROWBACK 

to  tell  you  that  all  is  arranged,  and  our  vengeance 


sure." 


Don  Anton  related  in  detail  his  instructions  to 
Pedro  of  the  Knife. 

"They  will  burn  this  gray-eyed  rascal!"  cried  he. 
"It  is  a  pity  that  you  are  not  able  to  go  with  us; 
it  will  be  a  revenge  worth  having  and  seeing." 

Robert  was  thin  to  emaciation,  and  very  weak. 
The  tidings  of  Don  Anton,  however,  aroused  him 
deeply,  and  even  brought  a  shade  of  color  into  his 
sallow  face. 

Don  Anton  saw  this,  for  the  sick-room  was  well 
lighted  with  its  two  open  windows,  it  being  in  the 
middle  of  the  day  and  broad  sunlight. 

It  was  by  no  means  certain  that  Robert's  wan 
cheek  had  flushed  with  joy.  Don  Anton  himself  re 
garded  the  color  that  his  news  had  summoned  to 
Robert's  face  as  an  evidence  of  trepidation,  for  he 
muttered: 

"It  is  as  I  thought.  This  sickness  is  for  the  good. 
He  is  already  afraid,  and  if  he  were  up,  he  would 
ruin  our  design." 

Robert  made  no  direct  response  to  Don  Anton, 
but  remained  silent.  The  prospect  of  that  bloody 
programme,  prepared  for  the  coming  daybreak  at 
the  Dove's  Nest,  had  shaken  him.  His  eyes,  big  and 
hollow  with  sickness,  were  seen  to  waver;  they  roved 
hither  and  yon  in  a  troubled  way.  At  last  he  asked : 

"Is  Professor  Doremus  here?" 

Don  Anton's  black  mustache  twitched  like  the 
whiskers  of  a  cat;  a  smile  half  parted  his  thin  lips. 

"He  has  business  every  day  and  all  day  long,  your 
Professor  Doremus,  that  carries  him  an  hour's  ride 

242 


ETHEL   THE   UNMAIDENLY 

away.  He  and  this  fellow  of  Moonlight's — the  man 
Home — are  busy  about  a  sand-hill.  No,  I  don't 
know  what  they  do;  maybe  they  dig  for  treasures. 
However,  it  is  good;  it  removes  your  inquisitive 
Professor  at  the  time  I  wish  him  absent." 

"And  Captain  Ruggles?" 

Robert  put  the  query  in  an  alarmed  whisper.  His 
weak  anxiety  to  bring  about  a  halt  in  those  Kiowa 
arrangements  was  evident.  It  caused  Don  Anton 
to  laugh  outright — being  so  evident,  and  yet  so  futile! 
It  was  a  condition  calculated  to  amuse  the  young 
rico.  The  pain,  mental  or  physical,  of  another  was 
always  pleasant  to  him;  and  he  did  not  like  Robert. 

"The  Red  Bull,"  said  Don  Anton,  "is  also  away. 
He  started  for  the  'Dobe  Walls  this  morning,  and 
will  be  gone  a  fortnight.  No,  Amigo" — this  sooth 
ingly — "you  need  have  no  alarms.  Neither  the  Red 
Bull  nor  your  busybody  Professor  can  interrupt." 

It  was  a  joy  to  Don  Anton  thus  to  tantalize  Robert. 
However,  what  he  told  of  the  Red  Bull  was  true. 
That  astute  owner  of  the  Cross-8  no  sooner  heard 
how  Pedro  of  the  Knife  had  returned  than  he  re 
membered  a  deal  of  urgent  business  between  himself 
and  Merchant  Wright.  In  case  anything,  upon  which 
the  fretful  temper  of  a  Panhandle  public  might 
thereafter  found  complaint,  should  come  to  pass 
within  questioning  distance  of  the  Cross-8,  the  pru 
dent  Red  Bull  proposed  an  alibi. 

With  the  Red  Bull  and  Professor  Doremus  both 
absent  Robert  was  helpless.  He  couldn't  tell  Aunt 
Tilda,  couldn't  tell  Ethel.  To  do  so  would  accom 
plish  nothing.  Bedfast,  weak,  cut  off  from  counsel, 
Robert  sank  back  on  his  pillow  with  a  groan. 

243 


THE   THROWBACK 

"I  will  go,"  said  Don  Anton,  imitating  sympathetic 
concern.  "You  are  not  strong  enough  to,  bear  good 
tidings;  and  even  joy  can  injure  the  sick.  Think  as 
little  as  possible.  But  if  thoughts  will  come,  why 
then  cheer  your  heart  by  reflecting  that  nothing  now 
can  save  that  Moonlight.  He  will  throw  no  more 
knives  when  the  fire  is  done  with  him." 

Don  Anton  left  Robert  frightened  at  what  was 
afoot,  and  burning  with  fever.  Outside  in  the  patio 
he  met  old  Juanita;  her  bleared  eyes  followed  him 
as  he  walked  away.  When  he  was  out  of  sight  old 
Juanita  did  not  return  to  Robert;  she  went  straight 
to  the  Dona  Inez. 

Later,  by  an  hour,  Aunt  Tilda  came  in  to  Robert. 
She  found  him,  to  her  dismay,  weaker  and  worse  off 
than  at  any  time  since  he  had  been  taken  ill.  At 
this  she  could  not  blame  herself  too  much. 

Ethel,  at  the  Cross-8,  found  herself  much  alone. 
The  Dona  Inez  commonly  was  not  available  for  social 
purposes  until  late  in  the  afternoon.  Not  that  the 
Dona  Inez  was  busy  over  household  affairs.  The 
Cross-8  would  have  fared  but  dismally  had  the  Dona 
Inez  undertaken  the  direction  of  its  domestic  desti 
nies;  for  our  blooming  senorita  made  a  specialty  of 
ignorance  on  matters  of  housewifely  concern.  Her 
brown  little  hands,  the  size  and  almost  the  color  of 
October  leaves,  would  have  managed  badly  at  any 
thing  more  recondite  than  making  chocolate  or  rolling 
cigarettes. 

It  was  a  radical  difference  in  the  habits  of  the  two 
girls  that  led  them  to  see  so  little  of  each  other  in 
the  earlier  hours.  Ethel's  inclinations  taught  her 
not  alone  to  rise  but  almost  to  retire  with  the  lark. 

244 


ETHEL   THE   UNMAIDENLY 

The  Dona  Inez  on  the  other  hand  possessed  certain 
cat-like  characteristics  that,  with  least  encourage 
ment,  kept  her  awake  and  moving  for  the  greater 
part  of  the  night.  Making  up  for  these  nocturnal 
activities,  she  was  no  one  to  turn  out — if  "turn  out" 
be  not  too  rude  a  phrase — with  the  sun.  Moreover, 
after  she  did  turn  out,  it  was  her  languid  pleasure 
to  sit  for  long  hours,  wrapped  in  her  reboza  of  black 
and  yellow,  sipping  chocolate  and  blowing  fragrant 
rings  from  her  cigarette.  She  was  no  conversation 
ist  at  such  times,  and  would  be  dreamily  silent  unless 
directly  addressed.  In  case  she  were  spoken  to,  the 
Dona  Inez  purred  assent  to  everything.  Decidedly 
pleasant,  she  was  decidedly  passive  until  the  day 
was  well  on  its  way  to  the  west. 

It  was  just  after  Don  Anton  paid  Robert  that 
disturbing  visit.  Ethel  had  ordered  Cato  to  saddle 
Jet;  she  was  in  for  a  gallop,  the  weather  being  bright 
and  crisp. 

As  she  stood  waiting,  whipping  her  riding-skirt 
with  the  rawhide  quirt,  she  was  more  than  a  trifle 
astonished  to  observe  one  of  the  Cross-8  retainers 
leading  up  Muchachito,  the  bay  pony  that  was  the 
particular  pet  of  the  Dona  Inez.  Muchachito  was 
saddled  and  bridled  and  fully  equipped.  This  made 
Ethel  wonder.  Could  it  be  that  the  Dona  Inez, 
defying  precedent,  contemplated  a  ride  at  that 
hour?  She  should  now  be  but  half  through  her 
chocolate,  her  cigarettes,  and  her  wordless,  feline 
musings! 

The  two  ponies,  Jet  and  Muchachito,  were  brought 
up  together,  for  those  orders  to  saddle  had  been  issued 
about  the  same  time.  Ethel  resolved  to  find  the  Dona 

245 


THE    THROWBACK 

Inez.  If  she  were  for  a  canter,  she  should  have 
Ethel's  company. 

Just  as  Ethel  reached  the  door  of  the  Dona  Inez's 
room,  that  young  lady  came  out.  Like  Ethel,  she 
was  arrayed  for  the  saddle.  Unlike  Ethel,  there  was 
in  her  face  a  look  of  activity,  and  a  daring  energy 
suppressed  and  held  in  check. 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  the  Dona  Inez  at  sight  of  Ethel, 
"this  is  better  than  I  hoped.  I  sent  Juanita  for  you. 
You  are  ready?  Come!" 

The  Dona  Inez  brushed  by,  and  the  next  moment 
was  on  Muchachito.  Ethel  was  scarcely  an  instant 
behind  with  Jet.  She  could  see  that  the  Dona  Inez 
was  moved  of  no  ordinary  reason  in  what  she  was 
about;  that,  for  the  nonce,  was  enough.  Once  free 
of  the  Cross-8,  Ethel  made  no  doubt  the  explanation 
would  be  forthcoming. 

The  Dona  Inez,  taking  the  lead  at  a  canter,  headed 
Muchachito  for  the  south.  There  was  no  trail,  nothing 
save  the  grass  under  foot. 

The  two  girls  were  a  mile  from  the  ranch,  when 
Ethel  spoke. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked. 

It  surprised  Ethel  to  discover  that  her  own  nerves 
had  become  as  tense  as  a  strung  bow.  The  excite 
ment  that  had  taken  possession  of  the  Dona  Inez  was 
contagious;  and  Ethel,  while  not  knowing  its  origin, 
was  beginning  to  feel  it. 

"Don't  ask  me  now,"  returned  the  Dona  Inez. 
"A  little  further,  and  you  shall  know." 

The  girls  rode  on.  Now  and  then  a  shadowy  jack- 
rabbit,  startled  from  beneath  a  mesquite,  fled  away 
to  one  side,  looking  in  its  arrow-swift  flight  like  a 

246 


ETHEL    THE    UNMAIDENLY 

brown  streak  drawn  across  the  gray  face  of  the  dust- 
colored  plain.  An  occasional  coyote  peered  at  them 
from  a  respectful  distance,  and  tried  to  settle  in  its 
narrow  wolf-wits  whether  or  no  this  sortie  of  two 
maidens  might  mean  a  hunting,  whereof  the  sequel 
would  be  a  meal. 

The  ponies  kept  steadily  to  work  for  thirty  minutes, 
the  Dona  Inez,  with  Muchachito  keeping  the  advance. 
They  were  five  miles  from  the  Cross-8  when  a  broad 
trail  was  reached.  The  Dona  Inez  pulled  short  up, 
Muchachito  breathing  deeply,  for  the  pace  had  been 
faster  and  the  distance  longer  than  he  liked.  Jet, 
who  was  more  in  form,  had  stood  the  journey  better. 

"You  see  the  trail? "  The  Dona  Inez  pointed  with 
her  little  hand.  "It  holds  to  the  south  through  that 
canon.  You  could  travel  for  one  hundred  miles,  and 
never  lose  it." 

"  What  is  this  mystery?  "  asked  Ethel.  "  You  have 
not  brought  me  here  to  show  me  this  trail." 

"I  have  brought  you  here,"  returned  the  Dona 
Inez,  with  a  gravity  and  a  vigor  strange  enough  to 
Ethel,  "that  you  might  save  a  life  that  you  love." 

Ethel's  heart  beat  quickly;  her  breathing  became 
deep  and  long. 

"See  now!"  cried  the  Dona  Inez,  lapsing  into  her 
manner  of  spiteful  sarcasm,  "my  Don  Anton  is  a 
fool !  He  is  so  great  a  fool  that,  having  driven  Juanita 
from  the  room  so  that  she  may  not  hear,  he  then 
goes  shouting  his  affairs  so  loud  that  when,  like  a 
true  woman,  she  sits  down  beneath  the  open  window, 
she  can  hear  nothing  else.  This  is  what  you  should 
know:  Don  Anton  makes  a  plot  with  Robert — who 
is  less  of  a  man,  with  even  less  courage,  than  Don 

247 


THE    THROWBACK 

Anton.  They  talked  together  not  an  hour  back. 
To-morrow  at  break  of  day  Pedro  of  the  Knife,  with 
a  horde  of  Kiowas,  will  fall  upon  him  whom  you  love 
— upon  your  Sefior  Moonlight !  Would  you  save  him? 
Good!  That  trail  leads  direct  to  his  home  on  the 
Palo  Duro — his  Dove's  Nest!  It  is  a  good  name; 
for  the  dove  is  on  her  way." 

Ethel  understood  the  Dona  Inez,  and  accepted 
every  word  without  challenge,  comment,  question  or 
doubt.  The  dread  import  of  what  she  heard  over 
mastered  all  else.  She  never  thought  of  denying 
that  charge  of  love,  or  asking  how  or  when  or  where 
the  Dona  Inez  became  informed  of  the  plot.  She 
thought  of  but  one  thing.  As  though  it  were  pictured 
before  her  in  a  mirror,  there  rose  the  peril  that  over 
shadowed  her  insolent  gray-eyed  one.  Instead  of 
weak,  she  grew  strong  to  the  occasion.  Her  splendid 
courage,  like  the  courage  of  a  thoroughbred  horse, 
mounted  in  her  veins  and  flamed  in  her  face.  Her 
eyes  shone  and  glanced  like  diamonds. 

The  Dona  Inez  beheld  the  flaming  cheek  and 
brightening  eye.  She  misunderstood  those  signals, 
and  read  in  them  the  symptoms  of  a  profound  attack 
of  modesty  and  maidenly  reserve.  At  this  her  wrath 
kindled. 

"This  is  no  time,"  she  cried,  hotly  rebuking  that 
misplaced  maidenly  reserve  and  virginal  modesty 
which  she  thought  she  had  discovered — "this  is  no 
time  for  fine  ladyisms!  It  is  now  that  you  must  be 
a  woman!" 

"I  shall  go,"  said  Ethel  simply. 

"And  I  should  go  with  you,"  went  on  the  Dona 
Inez,  softening  as  she  saw  her  error,  "but  there  are 

248 


ETHEL    THE    UNMAIDENLY 

many  reasons  against  it.  One  is  that  I'm  Don  An 
ton's  betrothed  wife." 

"You  will  not  marry  him  now!"  exclaimed  Ethel, 
with  a  thrill  of  horror — "marry  him,  a  murderer! 
who  sets  his  savage  bravos  to  assassinate  an  innocent 
man!" 

"Oh,  yes,  but  I  shall,"  returned  the  Dona  Inez, 
with  cynical  sweetness.  "Neither  is  your  Senor 
Moonlight  such  a  paragon  of  peace  and  innocence! 
I  should  not  send  you  to  warn  him,  only  I  love  you. 
Besides,  I  do  not  favor  creeping  upon  folk  in  their 
sleep,  to  drive  knives  through  their  hearts." 

The  Dona  Inez  spoke  now  in  a  manner  more  com 
posed. 

"You  have  plenty  of  time,"  she  explained  to 
Ethel.  "  Pedro  of  the  Knife  and  his  Kiowas  will  not 
attack  until  dawn.  You  should  be  at  the  Dove's 
Nest  by  dark.  You  have  but  to  give  your  Senor 
Moonlight  the  word,  and,  my  heart  for  it,  he  will 
know  what  to  do!" 

The  Dona  Inez  explained  that  no  one  but  Ethel 
could  have  been  entrusted  to  carry  a  warning  to  the 
Dove's  Nest. 

"My  father's  people,"  she  cried,  "are  all  on  the 
side  of  Don  Anton.  A  hint  to  one  of  them,  and 
instead  of  going  to  your  Senor  Moonlight,  he  would 
have  sought  Don  Anton.  As  for  the  sick  Robert, 
he  is  deep  for  this  death  plot.  It  was  that  which 
took  him  to  Austin;  he  brought  back  papers  to  make 
the  murder  safe.  The  old  gray  man — the  old  Pro 
fessor — was  nowhere  to  be  found  when  Juanita^had 
told  me  of  Don  Anton  and  the  sick  Robert.  No, 
chiquita,  it  is  you  who  must  save  him!"  The  Dona 

249 


THE    THROWBACK 

Inez  pushed  Muchachito  up  close,  and  leaning  from 
the  saddle  abruptly  kissed  Ethel.  "Ah!  I  envy  you! 
To  love  one  like  him!  To  be  granted  the  privilege 
of  saving  him!  Ah,  that  were  bliss!  Yes,  I  envy 
you!" 

With  the  last  word,  the  Dona  Inez  wheeled  Mucha 
chito  and  was  off  like  a  bird  for  the  Cross-8  before 
Ethel  could  collect  herself.  She  dropped  out  of  sight 
in  a  dry  arroya,  and  Ethel  was  alone. 

Ethel  turned  Jet  to  the  south  along  that  broad 
brown  strip  of  trail — the  trail  to  the  Dove's  Nest, 
where  dwelt  the  insolent  gray-eyed  one!  There  was 
nothing  of  faltering,  nothing  of  hesitation,  nothing 
save  a  great  resolution.  She  must  save  him!  With 
this  thought  holding  fast  by  her  heart,  what  other 
considerations  obtruded  themselves  were  made  petty 
by  comparison. 

Jet  was  strong  and  young  and  fleet,  and  good  to 
carry  the  girlish  weight  of  Ethel  through  springy, 
tireless  hours.  The  Dona  Inez  had  foretold  her  ad 
vent  at  the  Dove's  Nest  for  dusk.  Ethel,  learned 
in  saddle-craft,  slowed  down  the  swinging  lope  of 
Jet  to  a  gait  that  should  last  the  distance. 

As  Jet  swept  southward,  Ethel  tried  to  analyze 
her  own  feelings.  It  set  her  to  profound  study  that 
she  felt  elate,  uplifted,  happy.  Why  should  she  re 
joice?  Did  she  love  this  insolent  gray-eyed  one? 
She  would  have  died  before  confessing  it,  even  to 
herself!  No,  of  course  she  did  not  love  him!  How 
should  she? — a  man  unknown  to  her! — a  man  of  not 
altogether  unequivocal  repute!  And  yet  he  must  be 
saved!  Here  her  heart  spoke.  But  then  that  utter 
ance  was  no  more  than  the  voice  of  a  common  human- 

250 


ETHEL    THE    UNMAIDENLY 

ity.  Who  would  sit  by  while  murderous  savages 
surprised  a  fellow-creature  in  his  sleep  and  slew 
him?  Ethel  gave  Jet  his  head,  and  encouraged  a 
rounder  stride. 

One  thing  that  invited  her  wonder  was  that  she 
had  no  apprehensions.  Had  not  the  Dona  Inez  said 
that  once  he  were  warned,  the  insolent  gray-eyed 
one  would  know  what  to  do?  Ethel,  too,  was  filled 
with  a  shoreless  confidence  in  the  powers  of  that 
insolent  one.  She  had  but  to  tell  him!  He  would 
take  instant  and  unfailing  steps  toward  his  own  as 
well  as  her  protection.  She  never  once  thought  of 
Aunt  Tilda;  and  that  was  a  mark  of  selfishness. 
Neither  did  the  question  of  how  she  herself  was  to 
be  extricated  from  the  trap — reputational  and  other 
wise — into  which  she  was  so  steadily  riding,  present 
itself;  and  that  was  a  generous  mark  of  a  spirit  and 
self-sacrifice  greater  than  that  selfishness. 

What  grew  in  strangeness,  and  kept  presenting 
itself  for  Ethel's  ever  fresh  amazement,  was  a  sensa 
tion  of  tenderness  and  joy  in  what  she  was  about. 
A  soft  glow  swept  over  her — a  glow  that  had  no 
lawful  place  in  what  sensations  belong  merely  with 
saving  human  life.  Also,  she  felt  herself  blushing; 
and  the  blush  deepened  when  she  discovered  that  she 
didn't  care. 

The  sun  was  an  hour  above  the  harsh  western 
sky  line,  and  the  long,  fleet  shadows  of  Ethel  and  Jet 
danced  far  out  to  the  left.  It  was  roundly  three 
hours  since  the  Dona  Inez  had  given  her  that  fare 
well  kiss,  and  wheeled  off  for  the  Cross-8. 

The  trail  was  crossing  a  rolling  stretch  of  country, 
made  up  of  gray  grassy  billows  with  shallow  wide 

251 


THE    THROWBACK 

valleys  between.    Jet  was  going  easily,  and  never  a 
sign  of  weariness  or  loss  of  spirit. 

Suddenly,  with  a  zipp!  something  like  a  yellow 
pencil  of  light  flew  by,  and  splintered  on  the  flinty 
ground  ahead.  It  was  an  Indian's  arrow. 

Ethel's  heart  seemed  to  stop  beating;  she  was 
seized  with  a  choking  sense  of  terror!  Instinctively 
she  struck  Jet  with  her  quirt;  the  cut  raised  a  welt 
on  the  black  glossy  shoulder.  At  this  unusual  at 
tention  Jet  shot  forward  at  racing  speed. 

Another  arrow,  and  still  another,  zipped  right  and 
left,  to  go  driving  and  splintering  into  the  baked 
earth  beyond.  Ethel  bent  lower,  and  patted  and 
soothed  Jet  to  conciliate  and  make  amends  for  that 
instinctive  cut  of  the  quirt. 

She  glanced  backward  along  the  trail.  A  shiver 
cold  as  snow  passed  over  her;  next  she  was  caught 
up  in  a  hot  swirl  of  fear.  Behind,  not  two  hundred 
yards  away,  were  two  Indians,  their  quick  little 
mustangs  coming  on  at  top  bent.  As  the  mustangs 
flew  toward  her,  their  riders'  bows  went  twanging 
like  harp-strings,  while  arrow  after  arrow  streamed 
from  each. 

Even  in  her  terror  Ethel  grasped  the  whole  hor 
rible  nightmare  of  paint-streaked  hideous  faces, 
dancing  war-bonnets,  winged  arrows  that  sang  and 
hummed  like  bees,  and  little  ponies,  nostrils  wide, 
rushing  on  like  comets.  Burning  one  moment,  she 
froze  the  next;  and  yet,  through  it  all,  she  kept  her 
seat  firmly,  and  encouraged  Jet  with  pretty  plead 
ing  words  and  pats  of  the  little  hand  to  do  his 
best. 

And  all  this  in  a  handful  of  seconds! 
252 


Behind,  not  tiro  hundred  i/anlx  (uray,  were  two  Ind'unix. 


ETHEL   THE   UNMAIDENLY 

Even  in  the  grasp  of  awful  fear — such  is  the  power 
of  a  master  thought — Ethel  found  herself  exulting 
to  think  that  the 'Indians  had  come  up  from  the  rear. 
She  was  not  cut  off  from  the  Dove's  Nest!  If  she 
escaped  the  arrows,  and  Jet's  speed  held  up,  she  would 
yet  find  that  gray-eyed  insolent  one!  He  would  pro 
tect  her!  And  now  she  fled  toward  him  as  some  shal 
lop,  gale-driven,  flies  for  the  sheltering  port  beneath 
its  lee. 

Jet  was  racing  like  the  wind,  breathing  even, 
muscles  working  like  spring  steel.  The  arrows  no 
longer  zipped,  but  were  supplanted  by  blood-curdling 
yells.  The  effect  on  Jet  was  good;  the  yells  served 
to  stiffen  his  pace. 

Ethel  cast  another  glance  rearward.  A  feeling  of 
hope  and  high  relief  started  up.  Jet  was  widening 
the  distance;  those  murderers,  howling  in  their  paint 
and  feathers,  were  falling  behind.  Still,  they  clung 
to  the  chase  doggedly  and  would  not  give  it  up. 

The  foremost  jabbed  his  mustang  with  his  knife. 
Stung  with  pain,  the  knife-tortured  pony  rushed  out 
ahead  of  his  fellow,  and  for  a  space  raced  even  with 
the  pace  of  Jet.  The  rider  plied  his  knife,  and  kept 
the  frenzied  mustang  to  its  spasm  of  speed.  That 
couldn't  last!  When  the  mustang  was  exhausted, 
and  the  knife-point  could  no  more  rouse  it,  Jet  would 
pull  away. 

On  swept  the  chase;  the  foremost  pursuer  four 
hundred  yards  behind  Ethel,  the  other  two  hundred 
yards  further  to  the  rear.  Feeling  that  Jet  was  hold 
ing  his  own  and  a  little  better,  and  no  more  arrows 
humming,  Ethel  began  to  get  back  her  confidence. 
Those  first  fears  somewhat  abated,  she  settled  her- 

253 


THE    THROWBACK 

self  to  nurse  Jet  through  the  nerve-wasting  con 
test. 

Then  came  disaster,  sudden  and  swift!  In  a 
moment  all  was  terror  and  fresh  horror!  As  Jet 
recovered  from  a  leap,  a  stone  rolled  under  his  off 
fore  hoof.  He  went  down  on  one  knee;  then  caught 
himself  like  a  flash.  But  there  had  been  a  strain! 
Some  tendon  had  been  injured!  EthePs  blood  again 
ran  cold,  as  she  felt  Jet  growing  lame  and  slow 
beneath  her. 

The  Indians  saw  the  stumble,  and  were  sharp  to 
gauge  its  effects.  They  urged  their  own  blown  ponies 
to  a  final  rally.  On  they  came  like  tired  meteors. 
The  yells  grew  louder.  The  arrows  again  began  to 
glance  and  zipp  to  left  and  right.  The  feathers  on 
one  shaft  flicked  Ethel's  cheek.  She  could  feel  a 
whirl  and  a  confusion.  And  yet,  through  the  mists 
of  it  all — and  that  was  the  horror  of  it — she  knew 
that  Jet  was  going  slower  and  still  more  slow,  while 
the  fiends  behind  were  drawing  closer. 

Suddenly  she  was  aware  of  a  stinging  smart,  as 
though  her  shoulder  had  been  touched  with  white- 
hot  iron.  A  fearful  thing  of  feathered  terror  seemed 
fastened  in  her  flesh. 

With  a  shriek  Ethel  turned  her  head.  An  arrow 
had  pierced  the  muscle  high  up  on  her  left  arm.  It 
had  passed  two-thirds  through  and  held  fast,  the  steel 
head,  red  with  blood,  down-drooping  toward  her 
hand.  She  got  a  horrified  glimpse  of  the  three 
feathers  that  had  guided  the  wicked  thing,  jutting 
up  above  her  shoulder. 

Ethel  felt  herself  sicken.  Jet's  lameness  increased. 
It  was  as  though  he  now  blundered  forward  on  three 

254 


ETHEL    THE    UNMAIDENLY 

legs,  pace  no  faster  than  a  stumbling  walk.  With 
that  the  arrows  ceased  while  the  yells  increased. 
Her  pursuers  felt  secure  of  their  prey. 

Ethel's  eyes  were  swimming,  her  ears  ringing;  she 
could  feel  her  senses  giving  way.  She  knew  that 
the  Indians  were  drawing  nearer  and  ever  nearer. 
Now  they  were  closing  down  upon  her  with  the  rush 
of  a  storm.  She  was  in  the  clutch  of  death.  Her 
white  lips  tried  to  pray.  Then,  without  pain  or 
warning  shock,  she  ceased  to  hear  or  see  or  feel.  At 
one  stroke  everything  was  swallowed  up  in  a  vast, 
pitying  blank. 


255 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE  POISONED  ARROW 

LET  us  go  back  a  pace.  Moonlight  came  back 
from  the  'Dobe  Walls  to  the  Dove's  Nest  by  way  of 
Jeff  and  the  Monk's  Hill.  He  found  Jeff  crowding  his 
Mexicans  to  their  sand-digging  and  tunnel-timbering 
like  a  true  taskmaster.  The  work  seemed  to  be  pro 
gressing  hopefully.  Moonlight  was  cheered;  he  might 
yet  finger  those  rubies  of  the  dead  Don  Lopez,  and 
the  grasp  of  the  desert  upon  his  destinies  would  be 
broken. 

"How  are  you  making  out?"  he  asked. 

"Famous,  Cap'n,"  returned  the  amateur  engineer; 
"plumb  famous!" 

"You  seem  to  be  feeling  good?" 

"Shore!  Keep  busy,  Cap'n,  an'  you'll  keep  happy! 
Flies  don't  bother  a  b'ilin'  pot." 

Moonlight  gave  Jeff  a  bag  of  silver  money,  being 
part  of  what  was  paid  by  Merchant  Wright  for  those 
buffalo  skins.  The  bag  clinked  musically.  As  Jeff 
tossed  it  and  caught  it  in  his  hands,  he  sang  exultantly  : 

"Nothin'  but  money 
Is  sweeter  than  honey!" 

"That's  to  pay  off  your  Mexicans,"  explained 
Moonlight.  "Also,  when  Wright's  wagons  come  up 
the  trail  on  their  way  to  the  Dove's  Nest,  they'll  roll 

256 


THE   POISONED   ARROW 

you  out  a  cask  of  rum.  Your  Mexicans  seem  a  faith 
ful  lot.  Better  let  them  have  a  mouthful  now  and 
then,  to  lighten  their  hearts." 

That  evening  Jeff  paid  his  retainers,  and  gave  them 
each  a  pint  of  rum.  They  said  that  Jeff  would  yet  be 
Governor  of  Texas.  Then  they  sat  up  the  entire 
night,  and  gambled  at  monte,  singing  meanwhile  the 
serenades  of  old  Spain  until  the  coyotes  came  very 
close  to  listen. 

Jeff  also  heard,  but  declined  to  be  interested. 

"Let  'em  drink;  let  'em  sing;  let  'em  gamble," 
quoth  Jeff.  "The  morals  of  them  greasers  is  nothin' 
to  me.  In  the  mornin'  they  dig;  or  I'll  fix  up  trouble 
for  'em  in  hunks." 

When  Moonlight  arrived  at  the  Dove's  Nest  he 
found  that  Red  River  Bill  had  baled  up  the  hides  and 
was  ready  for  the  coming  of  the  teams.  By  evening 
next  day  the  Wright  outfits  had  arrived  and  departed, 
bringing  the  cartridges  and  receiving  the  hides;  and 
thereafter,  with  Moonlight  and  Red  River  as  its  sole 
inhabitants,  the  Dove's  Nest  returned  to  the  even 
tenor  of  its  ways.  The  buffalo  killing  and  skinning 
were  resumed;  again  the  hides  accumulated  on  the 
curing  grounds. 

Two  nights  later  Joe  Gatling  of  the  Frying  Pan 
rode  up. 

"You  see,"  he  explained,  addressing  Moonlight, 
"I  thought,  when  I  give  you  Frosty's  letter,  I'd  saved 
myself  this  trip;  but  it  was  written  otherwise.  This 
time  it's  Ned  Hanrahan." 

As  Joe  spoke  he  gave  Moonlight  a  long  envelope. 
Besides  the  letter  which  it  contained,  the  latter  could 
feel  a  stiff  four-cornered  piece  of  pasteboard. 

257 


THE    THROWBACK 

"If  I  go  on  packin'  the  mails  this-away,"  vouch 
safed  Joe,  "Scotty  '11  shore  begin  to  kick."  Then  to 
Red  River:  "How  about  the  food  supply?  I'm  as 
lean  as  a  lynx." 

Red  River  swung  a  huge  bake-kettle  from  the  open 
fire.  In  it  were  simmering  and  frying  a  dozen  huge 
buffalo  steaks.  These,  bake-kettle  and  all,  he  placed 
before  Joe,  and  supplemented  them  with  a  wooden 
bowl  heaped  high  with  saleratus  biscuit  of  his  best 
baking. 

"  Cut  in ! "  said  Red  River,  the  sententious.  "  Thar's 
coffee  in  that  pot  by  the  fire." 

Joe  went  to  the  rude  shelves  that  did  for  a  cupboard 
at  the  Dove's  Nest.  No  one  waits  on  you  in  the 
Panhandle,  so  Joe  waited  on  himself.  He  returned 
equipped  of  a  tin  plate  and  cup,  and  sat  himself 
firmly  down  before  that  steak-filled  bake-kettle. 

For  a  full  half  hour  Joe  spoke  no  word,  but  acted. 
At  the  end  of  that  time  he  had  reduced  the  buffalo 
steaks  by  one-third  and  made  a  visible  impression  on 
the  heaped-up  biscuit.  Neither  was  there  so  much 
danger  of  the  coffee  boiling  over  as  when  he  began. 

"That's  what  I  call  a  reestorative, "  said  Joe,  as  he 
leaned  back  after  his  banquet  and  rolled  a  cigarette. 

"Which  your  appetite  shore  don't  seem  to  be  losin' 
ground  none,"  observed  Red  River  cynically,  review 
ing  the  ravages  wrought  by  Joe. 

Moonlight  opened  Mr.  Hanrahan's  letter.    It  read : 

DEAR  CAPTAIN: 

The  picture  I  enclose  I  finds  in  the  room  lately  ockepied  by 
that  pulmonary  party  you  drug  in  outen  the  snow.  In  the  jedg- 
ment  of  me  an'  Bob,  it's  the  picture  of  you,  took,  say,  when  you 
was  a  yearlin'.  Wherefore  we  sends  it,  per  hand  of  Joe  who's 
headinr  this  mornin'  for  his  Fryin'  Pan  home.  If  the  picture 

258 


THE    POISONED    ARROW 

ain't  yours,  why  then  it's  simply  a  stack  down  wrong,  an'  no 
harm  done.  In  sech  case  give  it  to  the  pulmonary  party  at  your 
convenience  an'  much  oblige 

Yours  truly, 

NED  HANRAHAN. 

P.  S.  Said  pulmonary  party  looked  too  dead  to  skin  when 
he  leaves  with  Scotty,  an'  I  offered  Bob  two  to  one  in  bloos  he 
wouldn't  last  till  the  spring  round-ups.  Bob  refoosed  to  take 
it,  an'  swung  an'  rattled  for  four  to  one,  which  in  the  present 
state  of  my  information  I  didn't  feel  jestified  in  givin'.  If  you 
cross  up  with  this  pulmonary  party,  an'  notice  any  change  for 
the  worse,  try  an'  get  me  word.  I'd  shore  like  to  skin  Bob  outen 
a  stack  or  two. 

N.  H. 

Moonlight  glanced  at  the  photograph.  He  remem 
bered  well  the  day  in  Baltimore  when  it  was  struck  off. 
It  had  been  taken  no  more  than  a  handful  of  months 
prior  to  that  far-off  night  when  he  left  old  Somerset 
without  saying  "Good-by!"  It  brought  up  a  multi 
tude  of  memories — memories  clothed  with  sadness. 

Most,  however,  it  brought  up  the  question  of  how 
it  came  to  be  in  the  hands  of  his  enemy.  What  should 
one,  whom  he  had  never  met,  whose  very  name  was 
unknown  to  him,  be  doing  with  this  photograph  of 
himself? 

"And  yet,"  mused  Moonlight,  "the  explanation 
will  be  simple  enough,  I'll  wager,  when  it  gets  to  me. " 

That  Robert  would  seek  possession  of  the  Dove's 
Nest,  Moonlight  confidently  expected.  There  would 
otherwise  be  no  wit  in  that  long  journey  to  Austin. 
His  own  course,  too,  had  been  settled  upon.  Rifle 
and  knife,  he  would  hold  the  Dove's  Nest  against  all 
comers. 

When  the  blizzard  overthrew  his  first  plan,  Moon 
light  made  another.  He  would  not  now  seek  Robert ; 
he  would  let  his  foe  seek  him.  It  would  do  just  as 

259 


THE    THROWBACK 

well  to  meet  the  latter  at  the  Dove's  Nest.  Indeed, 
since  killing  was  resolved  upon,  Moonlight  preferred 
the  Dove's  Nest.  It  would  then,  as  a  transaction  in 
red,  be  more  quickly  understood  and  accounted  for 
by  the  Panhandle  intelligence. 

Certainly,  this  last  was  far  and  away  an  improve 
ment  on  an  earlier  impulse,  which  had  come  to  him 
after  he  left  the  'Dobe  Walls,  urging  him  to  find  out 
Robert  at  the  Bar-Z  and  compel  him  to  a  bloody  un 
derstanding.  The  " Beautiful  One"  would  be  at  the 
Bar-Z.  Moonlight  hesitated  at  carrying  his  war  into 
her  tender  vicinity.  Since  it  was  the  earliest  instance 
of  any  such  delicacy  on  his  part  he  was  struck  with  it 
as  strange.  He  would  not,  with  the  thought  of  the 
" Beautiful  One"  before  him,  go  to  the  Bar-Z.  No, 
he  would  wait  for  Robert  to  come  to  the  Dove's  Nest. 
They  might  then  try  out  their  differences  to  a  close. 

Moonlight,  having  taken  that  individual's  timid 
measure,  argued  that  Robert  would  come  backed 
with  a  force.  He  was  certain  that  no  Americans 
would  be  of  it.  Sure  as  to  the  feeling  of  the  Pan 
handle,  he  knew  that  the  enlistment  of  an  American 
in  Robert's  interest  would  be  out  of  the  question.  No 
such  solecism  was  possible. 

No;  Robert  would  surround  himself  with  a  dingy 
bevy  of  Mexicans.  Moonlight  was  shrewd  enough  to 
argue  that  in  such  a  coil,  wherein  smoke  would  doubt 
less  curl  and  rifles  crack,  Robert  would  have  the  help 
of  the  revengeful  Don  Anton.  Also  that  he  would 
not  have  the  prudent  Red  Bull's. 

"Not,"  he  considered,  "but  what  my  friend  who 
wants  the  Dove's  Nest  will  have  the  Red  Bull's  best 
wishes.  Those  wishes,  however,  will  be  silently  ex- 

260 


THE    POISONED    ARROW 

pressed,  and  at  no  time  take  the  shape  of  lending  him 
any  help  from  the  Cross-8.  With  Don  Anton  it  is 
different.  He  would  give  him  every  Baca  peon  on 
the  Concha.  Don  Anton  will  depopulate  Chaparita, 
if  it  be  necessary  to  make  the  campaign  a  success, 
stipulating  only  for  my  destruction."  He  spoke  to 
Red  River. 

"We  are  going  to  have  a  fight,"  he  observed  care 
lessly. 

"  Greasers?" 

"Don  Anton's  greasers." 

"Yere?" 

"Yes,  at  the  Dove's  Nest." 

"Let  her  roll!"  was  the  final  comment  of  the  ac 
quiescent  Red  River,  who  fought  as  part  of  the  day's 
work. 

"They  should  be  here  inside  of  the  month,"  Moon 
light  went  on.  "There  may  be  as  many  as  thirty. " 

"Thirty  or  three  hundred!"  responded  Red  River, 
"what's  the  odds?  A  greaser  can't  fight." 

Red  River  had  all  of  that  contempt  for  a  Mexican 
which  the  American  ever  entertains.  When  the  enemy 
is  Mexican  it  has  been  the  Texas  habit  to  ask,  not 
"How  many?"  but  "Where  are  they?"  and  Red 
River  was  of  an  unmixed  Lone  Star  strain. 

"They  will  try  for  a  surprise, "  remarked  Moonlight, 
running  the  probabilities  over  in  his  mind.  "They 
should  come  in  the  night." 

"Good!"  returned  the  undisturbed  Red  River. 
"Night  or  day,  we'll  be  yere." 

Neither  Moonlight  nor  Red  River  thought  of  send 
ing  for  Jeff.  Nothing  so  humiliating  as  asking  rein 
forcements  against  a  parcel  of  Mexicans  would  be 

261 


THE    THROWBACK 

entertained  by  either.  Not  that  Jeff  was  wholly  over 
looked.  A  remark  of  Red  River  showed  as  much. 

"Jeff  will  be  fightin'  mad,"  he  said  with  a  grin,  as 
though  the  jest  appealed  to  him,  "when  we  pulls  off 
this  play,  an'  him  left  out. " 

That  picture,  and  the  letter  from  Mr.  Hanrahan 
had  come  to  disturb  the  reflections  of  Moonlight. 
And  yet  they  did  not  reshape  his  plan  of  awaiting 
Robert  at  the  Dove's  Nest.  Still  it  would  relieve  him 
to  have  the  puzzle  of  it  cleared  up.  In  defending  the 
Dove's  Nest  he  would  else  feel  like  one  shooting  in  the 
dark.  He  reasoned  from  that  picture  that  his  foe 
knew  more  of  him  than  he  knew  of  the  foe;  and  while 
— when  it  came  to  lead  and  steel — he  could  perceive 
in  that  no  advantage  to  the  enemy,  it  was  an  igno 
rance  on  his  part  which  he  preferred  to  have  removed. 

That  photograph  was  more  upon  Moonlight's  cogi 
tations  than  his  pride  would  have  cared  to  admit. 
At  last  a  conclusion  was  reached.  He  himself  would 
visit  the  Bar-Z,  not  for  conflict  but  for  information. 
He  would  show  the  photograph,  and  ask  Robert  to 
explain.  The  explanation  might  mean  war  or  peace; 
he  would  be  ready  for  either.  Meanwhile,  a  sly  hope 
set  his  pulse  to  a  faster  pace  that  his  call  at  the  Bar-Z 
might  result  in  a  glimpse  of  the  "Beautiful  One" — 
whose  handkerchief  was  even  then  about  his  throat! 
He  might  learn  her  name,  and  settle  the  meaning  of 
that  embroidered  "E."  These  latter  meditations 
were  gently  pleasant. 

It  was  a  few  evenings  later.  Moonlight  and  Red 
River  were  over  their  final  buffalo  steaks. 

"To-morrow,"  spoke  up  Moonlight,  "when  I've 
killed  for  the  day,  I  think  I'll  ride  over  and  take  a 

2Q2 


THE   POISONED   ARROW 

look  in  on  Jeff.  I  shall  be  gone  four  days.  You'll 
find  plenty  to  do  with  what  robes  are  on  hand." 

Moonlight  said  no  word  as  to  what  should  be  the 
course  of  Red  River  in  case  Robert  and  his  Mexicans 
descended  on  the  Dove's  Nest  during  his  absence. 
Such  a  contingency  might  happen;  but  if  it  did,  Red 
River  could  be  relied  upon. 

With  the  first  slant  rays  of  the  eastern  sun  Moon 
light  was  in  the  saddle.  President  quickly  put  be 
hind  him  the  huddle  of  miles  which  lay  between  the 
Dove's  Nest  and  the  killing  grounds.  The  work 
would  not  be  hard  that  morning. 

As  Moonlight  came  within  sight  of  the  usual  bed- 
ground  of  the  buffaloes,  his  eyes  were  gratified  by  the 
spectacle  of  a  shaggy  herd  of  bulls  lying  or  grazing 
on  the  gentle  slope.  The  frost  on  their  rough  shoul 
ders  glittered  like  jewels  in  the  early  rays  of  the  sun. 

When  about  a  mile  from  the  bulls,  being  carefully 
down  the  wind  from  their  easily  excited  nostrils, 
Moonlight  dismounted,  and  putting  President  between 
himself  and  the  quarry  used  that  sagacious  animal  as 
a  stalking  horse.  The  bulls  were  not  afraid  of  Presi 
dent  wearing  an  empty  saddle.  With  Moonlight  on 
his  back,  they  would  have  shambled  off. 

Making  two  hundred  yard  tacks,  Moonlight  see 
sawed  President  from  left  to  right,  like  a  vessel  beat 
ing  up  against  the  wind,  he  himself  keeping  ever  on 
the  blind  side  from  the  bulls.  In  this  zigzag  fashion 
he  approached  within  shooting  distance  of  the  heavy 
brutes.  At  this  they  began  to  turn  restless,  and  one 
or  two  walked  a  threatening  step  toward  President, 
tossing  their  horns,  being  disposed  to  bully.  Why 
should  this  foolish  and  unmannerly  horse  be  per- 

263 


THE    THROWBACK 

mitted  to  disturb  their  repose?  The  thought  raised 
their  dander  strangely,  and  they  paused  to  paw  the 
sod  and  cover  their  shoulders  with  warlike  dust, 
thrown  up  by  indignant  hoofs. 

Moonlight  took  the  range  with  his  eye,  and  notched 
up  his  rear  sight — a  buckhorn — to  meet  it.  Then  he 
fell  on  one  knee,  just  under  the  nose  of  President. 
For  that  one  shot  he  would  need  a  cover.  Afterward 
he  could  throw  off  concealment;  the  work  would  be 
certain  and  never  a  chance  of  failure. 

He  brought  the  heavy  Sharp's  to  his  shoulder.  The 
fresh  morning  breeze  blew  squarely  in  his  face.  He 
picked  out  a  dignified  patriarch,  that  stood  up  the 
wind  from  the  herd,  and  aimed  at  a  place  back  of  the 
fore-shoulder. 

"Bang!" 

The  big  Sharp's  roared;  the  puff  of  smoke  went 
drifting  down  the  wind.  Shot  through  the  lungs,  with 
fore  feet  planted  wide,  nostrils  gushing  blood,  the 
wounded  bull  stood  fighting  for  breath.  A  moment 
passed.  He  crippled  slowly  forward,  stumbled, 
pitched  heavily  upon  his  shoulder,  and  then  rolled 
over  on  his  side.  Moonlight  flicked  out  the  empty 
shell  and  snapped  in  a  fresh  cartridge. 

With  the  roar  of  the  big  gun  the  buffaloes  started 
to  fly,  stampede  at  their  hearts  and  heels.  Instantly 
their  mood  changed.  The  scent  of  the  streaming 
blood  from  the  stricken  one  swept  down  upon  them 
with  the  breeze,  and  changed  fear  to  madness.  They 
forgot  to  fly,  became  blind  to  danger,  thought  only  in 
their  frenzy  of  destroying  their  wounded  mate.  They 
charged  upon  him  with  lowered  horns  and  hoarse  in 
sane  bellowings.  The  wounded  buffalo  had  fallen  be- 

264 


THE    POISONED   ARROW 

fore  the  nearest  bull  reached  him.  That  made  no 
change.  They  gored  and  trampled  the  recumbent 
form.  Dying  or  dead,  it  mattered  not  to  those  un- 
curried  lunatics,  whose  reason  had  been  overthrown 
by  the  smell  of  blood. 

"Bang!"  spoke  the  buffalo  gun. 

And  now  a  second  bull  stands  tottering  and  bleed 
ing  out  his  life.  With  a  rush  his  crazed  comrades  are 
upon  him. 

"Bang!" 

More  blood,  and  the  shaggy  mob  attack  the  third. 
It  is  like  a  battle.  The  bulls  fight  blindly,  madly, 
feeling  nothing  save  that  senseless  blood-rage.  And 
all  the  time  the  big  buffalo  gun  is  booming,  sending 
on  its  leaden  messengers  of  slaughter. 

The  riot  proceeds  for  fifteen  minutes.  Moonlight 
counts  thirty  victims,  some  quiet  in  death,  some  fee 
bly  struggling,  stretched  upon  the  slope.  It  is  enough ; 
he  remounts  the  unconcerned  President,  who  has 
been  nibbling  grass  throughout  the  carnage,  buffa 
loes  and  their  destinies  being  nothing  to  him. 

At  sight  of  Moonlight  on  President  the  bulls  be 
came  instantly  sobered.  They  left  off  their  lunatic 
bellowing  and  the  goring  of  dead  friends,  and  took 
to  flight  lumberingly.  Moonlight  paid  no  heed  to 
them.  At  that  their  scare  wore  off,  and  after  running 
a  half-mile  they  slowed  down,  and  began  grazing  as 
calmly  as  though  no  such  death-trinket  as  a  Sharp's 
rifle  had  as  yet  found  invention. 

Moonlight  rode  across  the  intervening  four  hundred 
yards,  and  contemplated  his  work.  Had  one  fenced 
in  the  thirty  dead  buffaloes  as  they  lay,  one  wouldn't 
have  enclosed  an  acre  of  land.  He  raised  his  eyes  in 

265 


THE    THROWBACK 

the  direction  of  the  Dove's  Nest.  In  the  distance, 
turning  a  rise  of  ground,  he  made  out  Red  River  with 
team  and  wagon  on  his  way  to  the  skinning. 

"And  now,"  thought  Moonlight,  "for  my  friend  of 
the  Bar-Z!  With  this  photograph  over  which  to  be 
gin  a  conversation,  and  with  our  six-shooters  to  punc 
tuate  it,  we  ought  to  know  more  or  know  less  of  one 
another  before  we  part." 

Moonlight,  without  waiting  for  Red  River  to  come 
up,  struck  across  country  as  the  crow  flies  for  the 
Monk's  Hill.  He  would  stay  one  night  with  Jeff,  and 
be  off  for  the  Bar-Z  in  the  morning. 

The  pace  of  President  would  not  have  been  called 
headlong,  and  yet  the  steady  stride  ate  up  the  miles 
like  a  vulture.  They  seemed  to  melt  beneath  the 
flying  hoofs,  as  snow  melts  in  the  hot  face  of  the  sun. 

"At  this  gait,"  thought  Moonlight,  "there  should 
be  plenty  of  daylight  left  when  I  make  Jeff's  camp." 

Two  hours  went  by.  Suddenly  he  pulled  up  with 
an  ejaculation  of  disgust.  He  put  his  hand  to  his 
pocket,  and  then  brought  it  away  baffled.  The 
thought  had  come  to  him  that  the  photograph  was 
left  behind;  the  moment's  search  confirmed  it. 

"There's  wisdom!"  exclaimed  Moonlight,  in  mighty 
dudgeon  with  himself.  "It's  like  the  act  of  a  boy! 
The  worst  is  that  President  will  be  punished  most; 
it  means  extra  miles  and  extra  hours  for  him." 

Around  came  the  velvet  muzzle  of  President;  again 
he  was  urged  to  that  long,  unbuckled  distance-devour 
ing  gallop.  Only  now  he  was  pointing  for  the  Dove's 
Nest,  and  not  for  the  Monk's  Hill. 

Moonlight  was  in  no  good  humor  with  himself.  Not 
being  clairvoyant,  he  failed  to  foresee  how  important 

266 


THE    POISONED   ARROW 

for  his  heart  and  his  hopes  the  disaster  of  that  for 
gotten  photograph  would  prove.  One  should  not 
condemn  a  cause  until  the  result  is  known.  Being 
human,  however,  and  wholly  unwedded  to  the  above 
philosophy,  Moonlight  berated  himself  as  though  he 
were  the  worst  of  felons. 

Red  River  was  still  absent  at  the  buffalo  skinning, 
and  Moonlight  had  the  Dove's  Nest  to  himself.  He 
took  advantage  of  his  return  to  make  a  coarse  repast 
on  coffee,  biscuit  and  cold  boiled  buffalo  tongue.  Pend 
ing  a  fresh  start,  he  unloosened  the  double  cinches  of 
his  saddle.  President,  at  this  relief,  breathed  deeply, 
and  then,  emulating  the  example  of  his  master,  set 
about  refreshing  himself  on  the  short  grass. 

Moonlight  now  was  in  no  hurry;  he  had  lost  the 
morning,  he  would  not  try  to  save  the  afternoon. 
President,  on  a  pinch,  was  capable  of  putting  one  hun 
dred  miles  between  feed  and  feed;  but  there  abode 
no  present  occasion  for  such  heart-breaking  haste, 
and  the  day  was  well  along  before  Moonlight  made  a 
fresh  start. 

"If  it  hadn't  been,"  said  he,  as  he  swung  into  the 
saddle,  "for  this  foolish  lapse  of  memory,  I'd  be  at 
Jeff's  camp  by  this  time." 

Again  he  struck  out,  adopting  now  that  open  trail 
which  ran  away  to  the  north.  Ten  miles  out  from 
the  Cross-8  he  would  break  to  the  right  for  the  Monk's 
Hill. 

The  sun  was  swinging  low  in  the  west,  and  Presi 
dent  had  entered  a  narrowish  part  of  that  same  canon 
which  had  aforetime  beheld  the  discomfiture  of  Pedro 
of  the  Knife.  Moonlight  was  thinking  on  that  ear 
less  one,  and  his  thoughts  made  for  his  disparagement. 

267 


THE    THROWBACK 

"It  doesn't  speak  well/'  he  was  saying  to  himself, 
"for  the  Mexican's  reputation  as  a  fighting  man,  that 
he  has  not  come  for  his  revenge.  Surely,  if  the  loss 
of  an  ear  won't  rouse  him,  he  must  be  exceeding 
tame." 

Moonlight  was  turning  in  his  mind  the  tameness  of 
Pedro  of  the  Knife,  to  the  steady  lowering  of  that 
assassin  in  his  good  esteem,  when  he  was  brought  up 
short  by  a  ringing  volley  of  yells.  In  a  moment  he 
was  out  of  the  saddle,  and  making  for  a  huge  bowlder 
that  topped  the  canon's  side.  Once  there  he  might 
see  without  being  seen. 

It  cost  but  the  splinter  of  a  moment,  and  he  was 
behind  the  bowlder.  From  this  vantage  point  he 
commanded  the  trail  for  the  distance  of  a  furlong. 
Then  it  dipped  out  of  sight  into  the  low  ground  be 
yond. 

It  was  from  this  low  stretch  came  the  cries.  They 
grew  louder  as  their  source  drew  nearer.  As  yet  the 
authors  of  those  yells  were  hidden  by  the  lay  of  the 
ground. 

Moonlight  recognized  those  shouts  as  readily  as  a 
sophomore  recognizes  his  college  cry. 

"Kiowas!"  he  ruminated.  "They  are  chasing 
some  one!  If  he'll  only  last  until  he  is  over  yonder 
crest,  I  may  do  something  to  his  advantage." 

The  yells,  throughout  which  ran  a  note  of  savage 
triumph,  waxed  in  volume  as  the  chase  came  on. 

"Kluck!  kluck!"  said  the  Sharp's. 

The  sound  was  oily  and  full  of  unctuous  anticipa 
tion,  as  though  the  rifle  were  licking  its  lips.  Per 
haps  it  was;  since  rifles  feed  on  slaughter,  surely  they 
should  be  pleased  with  slaughter. 

268 


THE    POISONED    ARROW 

Moonlight's  gaze  was  fastened  on  the  bare,  gray, 
grassless  spot  where  the  well-worn  trail  broke  over 
the  hill.  What  he  expected  was  a  Mexican  herder 
flying,  hand  and  heel,  from  a  party  of  Kiowas,  who 
had  left  off  buffalo  hunting  for  the  more  engaging 
pastime  of  hunting  the  Mexican. 

"Yes,"  he  went  on,  as  though  apologizing  to  him 
self  for  some  meditated  piece  of  misconduct,  "I  think 
I'll  stop  them.  Not  on  the  Mexican's  account,  of 
course;  for  as  between  Kiowas  and  greasers,  I've 
little  or  no  choice.  But  I  don't  care  to  encourage  the 
coming  of  Kiowas  to  the  south  side  of  the  Canadian. 
Their  range  lies  to  the  north;  over  here  they'd  get 
in  my  way  and  spoil  my  hunting." 

These  reasons  appeared  convincing  and  satisfac 
tory,  and  Moonlight  crouched — rifle  to  the  fore — as 
sharply  set  as  a  rattlesnake  coiled  to  strike. 

"  Suppose  now  it  turns  out  to  be  my  friend  Pedro 
of  the  Knife." 

The  notion  caused  a  puckering  about  the  corners 
of  Moonlight's  mouth.  It  was  out  of  place,  however, 
and  wondrously  at  variance  with  what  transpired. 
Even  as  he  entertained  the  fancy  a  foam-flaked  pony, 
lame  and  stumbling,  came  halting  over  the  crest  to 
stagger  forward  a  pace  or  two,  and  stop.  The  rider, 
a  girl,  pale  and  senseless,  slipped  from  the  saddle  as 
a  snow  wreath  slips  from  a  hillside.  There  on  the 
grass  she  lay,  dead  or  fainting,  while  the  spent,  foam- 
dabbled  pony  stood  with  drooping  head  and  quiver 
ing  flank. 

Moonlight,  the  immovable,  could  not  restrain  a 
cry. 

"The  Beautiful  One!"  he  exclaimed. 
269 


THE    THROWBACK 

The  next  moment,  eye  agate,  jaw  iron,  he  became 
as  steady  as  a  tree. 

There  was  no  long  wait;  events  crowded  hard  upon 
events.  Coincident  with  the  appearance  of  Ethel  a 
painted  savage  showed  his  ocher-streaked  features 
above  the  ridge.  His  beaten  pony,  worse  shaken  even 
than  Jet,  fell  on  its  knees  as  with  a  last  effort  it  scram 
bled  onto  the  level  ground.  The  yelling  rider  never 
paused.  Knife  in  hand,  he  was  instantly  off  the 
pony,  bending  over  Ethel. 

That  marked  his  end.  Like  a  flash  he  was  covered 
by  a  muzzle  that  never  erred.  The  great  Sharp's 
boomed  and  a  bullet — eight  to  the  pound — went  crash 
ing  through  his  brain.  Throwing  up  his  hands,  the 
painted  one  died  without  a  cry,  his  knife  tinkling  on 
the  hard  ground.  As  he  went  down  Moonlight  ran 
forward  like  a  deer,  slipping  in  another  cartridge  as 
he  sped. 

Kiowa  number  two,  if  he  heard  the  report  of  the 
buffalo  gun,  failed  to  understand.  Perhaps  he  lost 
all  notice  of  it,  drowning  its  reverberations  in  his  own 
yelling  uproar. 

Moonlight  ran  to  the  crest  of  the  hill,  holding  it  a 
first  duty  to  consider  that  yell-maker,  not  yet  in 
view.  There  he  was,  fifty  yards  below,  pony  at  a 
walk.  He  had  thrown  himself  from  its  back,  think 
ing  to  make  better  speed  on  foot,  and  was  pressing  up 
the  slope. 

"Dog  of  a  Kiowa,"  cried  Moonlight,  "look  up!" 

The  astonished  savage  lifted  his  face.  As  he  did 
so,  the  bullet  planted  itself  between  his  eyes.  Over 
he  rolled,  to  perish  like  his  fellow  without  moan  or 
quiver,  dead  before  he  struck  the  ground. 

270 


THE    POISONED   ARROW 

Moonlight  was  by  Ethel's  side  almost  before  the 
Kiowa  had  fallen.  Her  cheek  was  as  pale  as  a  lily. 
He  gently  seized  the  arrow,  intending  to  break  off 
the  head  and  draw  the  Osage-orange  shaft  from  the 
shoulder.  The  arrow-head — steel  and  of  a  rusty 
brown— was  loose,  and  came  off  in  his  fingers.  The 
loose  arrow-head  caused  him  to  start  with  a  kind  of 
dismay. 

"What!"  he  cried.  "A  war  arrow!  Now  heaven 
forbid  it  be  poisoned!" 

From  the  gray  eyes  there  looked  out  a  great  alarm. 
Quick  as  thought  he  drew  his  knife,  and  with  swift 
deftness  ripped  wide  the  dress  sleeve  from  wrist  to 
throat.  The  wound  itself  was  slight;  the  arrow  had 
pierced  no  more  flesh  than  might  have  been  taken 
between  thumb  and  finger.  He  removed  the  head 
less  shaft,  and  wiped  away  the  oozing  blood  which 
showed  like  crimson  on  ivory  against  the  snow-white 
skin.  The  steel  had  made  a  double  wound,  the  cuts 
no  more  than  a  half-inch  apart. 

Ethel's  face  was  the  hue  of  marble.  Moonlight 
wasted  no  precious  time.  Speculation  as  to  whether 
or  no  the  arrow  had  been  dipped  in  poison  would  be 
fruitless,  and  could  decide  nothing.  Also,  he  was  too 
well  versed  in  Kiowa  methods  touching  war  arrows 
to  accept  the  chance.  There  was  no  hesitation,  no 
diffidence.  The  moment  he  drew  out  the  shaft,  he 
laid  his  lips  to  the  wounds.  If  there  were  poison  he 
would  draw  it  forth.  It  was  the  best  remedy;  under 
the  circumstances  it  was  the  only  remedy. 

Whether  it  were  the  unusual  treatment,  or  just  her 
young,  strong  life  returning  of  itself,  is  hard  to  say. 
After  a  moment,  however,  Ethel's  eyes  opened  and 

271 


THE    THROWBACK 

stared  skyward  in  a  dimmed  way.  Her  wits  were 
still  abroad;  the  past  as  well  as  the  present  was  in  a 
mist.  Then  of  a  sudden  her  glance  fell  on  Moonlight. 
Instantly  she  seemed  to  know  and  understand;  at 
that,  face  and  neck  and  milk-white  wounded  shoulder 
went  from  snow  to  rose-red. 


272 


CHAPTER  XXI 
APPLIED  SCIENCE  AND  THE  MONK'S  HILL 

FOR  full  fifteen  lurid  minutes,  following  the  disaster 
at  the  Monk's  Hill,  Jeff  expressed  himself  concerning 
what  he  called  his  "luck."  He  was  a  finished  rhetor 
ician  of  the  Panhandle  variety,  and  good  judges,  such 
as  Mr.  Hanrahan  and  Merchant  Wright,  would  have 
said  that  he  did  the  situation  justice.  In  the  end,  Jeff 
ran  down  and  turned  to  the  Professor,  who  was  stand 
ing  by  full  of  sympathy  and  science. 

"What  do  you-all  think  yourse'f,  Professor?"  asked 
Jeff. 

"Friend  Jeff,"  the  Professor  returned,  "I  will  not 
pretend  that  the  rougher  outlines  of  a  plan  have  not 
occurred  to  me.  Let  me  revolve  this  matter  in  my 
mind,  and  I  may  have  a  suggestion  to  make. " 

The  Professor  walked  away  toward  the  river,  leav 
ing  Jeff  surrounded  by  his  Mexicans,  contemplating 
the  sand-choked  mouth  of  the  tunnel.  The  Mexicans 
crossed  themselves  resignedly  after  the  manner  of 
their  church,  as  showing  that  in  their  estimation  all 
was  lost. 

Jeff  set  them  with  shovel  and  wheelbarrow  to  clear 
ing  out  the  invading  sand.  It  was  a  hopeless  labor; 
the  sand  poured  in  as  fast  as  it  was  cleared  away. 
Evidently  Jeff's  timbering  had  been  more  or  less  dis 
turbed,  for  every  crack  leaked  a  sandy  stream.  Jeff, 
however,  held  his  retainers  to  their  task.  Until  he 

273 


THE    THROWBACK 

had  formulated  some  fresh  programme  he  might  bet 
ter  keep  them  engaged;  and,  although  they  knew 
their  work  to  be  useless,  the  docile  Mexicans  made  no 
remonstrance.  They  were  used  to  act  without  con 
sideration  and  upon  suggestion  of  the  superior  mind. 

The  Professor  as  he  strolled  away  had  one  thought 
ful  eye  upon  the  giant  sand-hill.  At  times  he  paused, 
and  cast  a  sagacious  glance  toward  the  Monk's  Hill 
proper.  After  several  minutes  of  rumination,  he  came 
back  to  Jeff. 

"As  you've  already  told  me,  Friend  Jeff,"  observed 
the  Professor,  "this  hill  was  formed  by  the  winds." 

"Shore!"  returned  Jeff.  "Such  breeze-built  emi 
nences  is  plumb  common.  Which  I  wish  they'd  been 
compiled  some  other  way.  Now  if  this  yere  was  what 
a  gent  might  call  a  nacheral  born  hill,  the  tunnelin' 
tharof  would  be  a  cinch." 

"Yes,"  continued  the  Professor,  not  heeding  Jeff, 
"it  was  formed  by  the  winds.  They  were  from  the 
north  or  northwest,  and  came  driving  down  the  river 
bottoms,  picking  up  their  freight  of  sand  on  the  way. 
Striking  the  wooded  crest,  they  sifted  down  their 
freight  of  sand  on  the  same  principle  that  underlies 
the  formation  of  snowdrifts." 

"That's  c'rrect,"  coincided  Jeff,  breaking  in  on  the 
Professor's  exposition,  which  had  been  delivered  to 
himself  rather  than  Jeff,  and  was  in  the  nature  of  a 
scientific  soliloquy;  "it's  as  you  lays  it  down.  Them 
sand-freighted  winds  comes  cavortin'  down  the  river 
from  the  northwest.  Which  I  might  add  that  the 
wind  puts  in  most  of  its  time  along  the  Canadian 
blowin'  from  the  north  arid  northwest. " 

"Precisely,"  interrupted  the  Professor.  "And 
274 


THE   MONK'S    HILL 

since  this  sand-hill  is  wind-formed,  doesn't  it  occur  to 
you  that  it  might  be  as  readily  removed  by  the  wind?" 

"Why,  yes,  Professor,"  assented  Jeff,  "it  might, 
if  only  a  gale  would  set  in  from  the  right  direction, 
say  from  the  south  or  southeast. " 

"It  wouldn't  have  to  come  from  so  opposite  a  quar 
ter.  Here,  I  have  an  idea!  How  much  canvas  have 
you,  canvas  such  as  that  of  which  your  tent  is  con 
structed?" 

"The  tent's  about  all, "  replied  Jeff,  looking  puzzled, 
but  expectant.  Then  he  added:  "However,  if  it's 
canvas  you  want,  the  Red  Bull  ought  to  have  bolt  on 
bolt  of  the  best  16-ounce  duck  in  the  Cross-8  store." 

The  Professor  brightened  up. 

" Peradventure  he  has,"  he  said.  "This  then 
would  be  my  suggestion:  let  us  erect  a  canvas  fence 
or  screen,  carrying  it  out  beyond  the  toe  of  the  hill 
toward  the  river.  It  will  then  catch  the  breeze,  and 
deflect  it  against  the  sand-hill.  Also,  if  your  Mexicans 
would  but  clear  away  the  small  trees  and  shrubs  from 
the  crest  just  above,  it  should  doubtless  assist  in  the 
experiment." 

Jeff  did  not  instantly  comprehend.  At  last,  how 
ever,  the  scientific  Professor  succeeded  in  making  him 
self  plain.  Once  he  grasped  the  matter,  Jeff  gave  it 
his  heartiest  adoption;  for  he  was  a  radical,  and  went 
easily  to  new  things. 

The  Professor  marked  a  rough  line  from  a  point 
where  the  breeze-constructed  sand-hill  joined  with  the 
rocky  Monk's  Hill  proper,  on  the  side  nearest  the 
river.  The  line  marked  was  twenty  rods  long,  and 
the  river  end  overlapped  the  point  of  rocks  in  which 
the  Monk's  Hill  terminated  by  sixty  feet.  Along  this 

275 


THE    THROWBACK 

line  he  would  build  a  canvas  fence,  assuming  that  so 
much  canvas  could  be  found  in  the  ranch  store  at  the 
Cross-8.  On  this  latter  point  Jeff  was  confident. 

"Thar's  plenty  of  canvas  at  the  Red  Bull's,"  said 
Jeff.  "  You  can  put  a  bet  on  it!" 

The  Professor  observed  that  he  would  see  to  the 
matter  of  that  Cross-8  canvas.  If  it  wasn't  to  be  had 
from  the  Red  Bull's  outfit,  it  might  still  be  found 
somewhere  else,  Tascosa  or  the  'Dobe  Walls  perhaps. 
Meanwhile,  a  first  step  would  be  to  set  the  Mexicans 
to  cutting  smallish  trees,  from  among  the  many  taper 
ing  pines  and  aspens  growing  on  the  thither  slope  of 
the  Monk's  Hill.  These  must  be  trimmed  of  their 
boughs,  and  shaped  into  twenty-foot  fence  posts,  to 
form  a  framework  for  the  canvas. 

"If  there's  duck  sufficient,"  observed  the  Profes 
sor,  "we  should  make  it  twenty  feet  high.  It  will 
control  the  breeze  just  as  a  conduit  does  water,  and 
throw  it  against  the  base  of  the  hill.  If  my  experi 
ment  works  faithfully  out,  the  effect  will  be  to  cut  a 
path  between  the  sand-hill  and  the  hill  of  rocks  against 
which  it  rests." 

"The  same  bein',"  added  Jeff,  "calc'lated,  in  the 
nacher  of  things,  to  unkiver  said  spring  which  I've 
been  tryin'  to  track  to  its  lair  by  means  of  that  tun 
nel.  Professor,  you're  a  wonder!  Shake!"  Here  Jeff 
possessed  himself  of  the  hand  of  his  scientific  ally. 
"Which  I've  allers  held  you  to  be  a  eddicated  gent; 
but  never  to  sech  extremes  as  now." 

The  Professor  modestly  repressed  Jeff's  enthusiasm. 
He  advised  that  congratulations  be  withheld  until 
triumph  had  been  achieved. 

The  Professor  elaborated  his  plan  in  detail.  With 
276 


THE    MONK'S    HILL 

Jeff,  he  walked  over  the  line  of  the  proposed  canvas 
wind-break,  and  drove  pegs  where  the  posts  were  to 
be  set.  Then  the  pair  climbed  the  Monk's  Hill,  and 
marked  two  score  and  more  of  slim  young  trees  for 
the  axes  of  the  Mexicans.  They  would  need  not  only 
the  posts,  but  a  tree  equally  as  large  must  be  felled 
to  serve  as  brace  for  each  post.  At  this  tree-marking 
the  pair  were  busy  until  the  sun  had  traveled  half  way 
down  the  western  sky. 

The  Professor  took  his  leave,  promising  to  go  into 
the  subject  of  duck  the  moment  he  reached  the  Cross-8. 
When  he  had  departed,  Jeff  withdrew  his  patient  re 
tainers  from  their  dust-shoveling,  and  set  them,  axe 
in  hand,  to  felling  the  trees.  Green  pine  chops  easily, 
and  the  post-cutting  was  not  so  hard  as  the  sand- 
shoveling.  As  the  Professor  mounted  Socrates  for 
his  return  journey,  he  could  hear  the  cheerful  " chip- 
chop"  of  the  keen-bitted  axes,  busy  in  the  business 
of  his  fence  posts.  Also  he  was  gratified,  as  he  rode 
away,  to  feel  on  his  right  cheek  a  steady  wind  from 
the  northwest. 

"Only,"  considered  the  Professor,  "the  breeze  will 
have  to  show  a  greater  velocity  than  this.  Now  a 
wind  traveling  say  forty  miles  an  hour,  properly  de 
flected,  ought  to  gnaw  through  such  a  snuff-like  ob 
struction  as  that  sand-hill  in  a  very  brief  space.  How 
ever,  we  shall  see." 

As  Jeff  declared,  the  Professor  found  the  Red  Bull's 
ranch  store  rich  in  bolts  of  canvas.  He  was  in  favor 
of  taking  them  all. 

The  Red  Bull,  personally,  was  already  on  his  way 
to  the  'Dobe  Walls  in  quest  of  that  alibi  for  which  he 
yearned,  but  the  old  Mexican  major  domo  acted  po- 

277 


THE    THROWBACK 

litely  in  his  stead.  Certainly,  the  urbane  major  domo 
would  give  the  honorable  Don  Doremus  anything  in 
his  power!  Also,  pack  mules — three  would  be  enough 
—should  be  ready  in  the  morning,  to  carry  those  bolts 
of  duck  wherever  the  honorable  Don  Doremus  wished. 
The  old,  gray  major  domo  beamed  and  shrugged  his 
shoulders  and  spread  his  hands  as  he  said  these  things. 
He  was  only  too  happy  to  be  of  use  to  the  Red  Bull's 
friend. 

"He  is  locoed!"  murmured  the  major  domo,  sor 
rowfully  tapping  his  wrinkled  forehead,  as  the  Pro 
fessor  left  the  ranch  store  to  hunt  up  Aunt  Tilda,  and 
ask  concerning  Robert. 

" Locoed"  is  Mexican  for  crazy;  but  the  old  major 
domo  was  no  less  pleasantly  ready  to  turn  out  the 
Red  Bull's  bolts  of  duck  for  all  that.  The  honorable 
Don  Doremus  was  undoubtedly  insane;  he  was  also, 
however,  the  friend  of  the  Red  Bull.  Wherefore, 
sticking  only  to  the  latter  consideration,  the  old  major 
domo  was  prepared  next  morning  with  that  trio  of 
promised  mules,  packed  to  the  ears  with  bolts  of 
canvas. 

"Is  it  for  a  long  journey?"  the  major  domo  asked. 
"  If  it  is,  I  will  send  also  a  camp  outfit  with  the  packer, 
who  is  to  drive  the  laden  mules  for  the  honorable  Don 
Doremus." 

The  Professor  explained  that  the  journey  would 
mean  no  more  than  a  couple  of  hours.  Mounted  on 
Socrates,  he  himself  would  prod  forward  the  laden 
mules,  and  the  packer  offered  by  the  generous  polite 
ness  of  the  major  domo  might  be  dispensed  with. 

"Then,"  acquiesced  the  major  domo,  "if  the  jour 
ney  be  only  two  hours,  the  honorable  Don  Doremus  has 

278 


THE    MONK'S    HILL 

but  to  turn  the  three  mules  loose  when  he  is  done  with 
them.  They  will  return  of  themselves. " 

When  the  Professor  reached  the  scene  of  his  pro 
posed  operations,  he  found  that  the  indefatigable  Jeff, 
with  two  of  the  Mexicans,  was  already  setting  up  the 
tall  posts  for  the  canvas  fence.  So  fast  did  the  enter 
prise  go  forward,  with  two  Mexicans  chopping  and 
two  setting  up  and  bracing  the  posts,  that  by  sun 
down  the  close-set  rank  of  poles  was  almost  completed. 
Jeff  squinted  along  them  with  approving  eyes. 

" Looks  like  a  fine-tooth  comb,"  he  remarked. 

The  Professor,  fertile  in  invention,  had  brought 
with  him  from  the  Cross-8  store  divers  packages  of 
those  small  iron  cleats  wherewith  wire  fences  are  con 
structed.  These  were  used  to  hold  fast  the  stretched 
canvas  to  the  posts.  The  work  went  on  happily. 

When  the  chopping  Mexicans  had  cut  what  poles 
were  needed,  Jeff  next  set  them  to  shoveling  into  the 
base  of  the  sand-hill  at  its  juncture  with  the  Monk's 
Hill,  where  the  canvas  wind-break  would  end.  This 
was  to  encourage  the  deflected  breeze  to  take  hold. 

"An7  it  '11  shore  take  hold,  you  bet,"  said  Jeff  con 
fidently,  "  once  it  gets  started.  An'  you  hear  me,  Pro 
fessor!  once  one  of  them  Canadian  zephyrs  sinks  its 
teeth  into  that  sand-hill,  it  '11  go  through  it  like  the 
grace  of  heaven  through  a  camp  meetin'.  That's 
straight!  Which  it  '11  unravel  it  like  an  old  lady  un 
ravels  a  stocking.  This  yere  sand-hill's  goin'  to  be  a 
thing  of  the  past,  said  alteration  bein'  doo  to  occur 
with  the  first  stiff  gale  that  comes  pirootin'  down  the 
creek." 

It  was  the  evening,  and  the  canvas  wind-break  had 
been  finished.  Twenty  feet  high,  and  extending  like 

279 


THE    THROWBACK 

the  wing  of  a  fish-net  almost  to  the  river's  edge,  it 
looked  from  a  distance  not  unlike  the  one  side  of  an 
enormous  circus  tent.  Being  stiffly  braced  and  se 
cured,  and  the  twenty-foot  posts  having  been  solidly 
planted,  there  was  small  chance  of  its  coming  down. 

Jeff  gazed  upon  the  work  complacently,  and  pro 
nounced  it  good.  The  breeze  was  very  slight,  weather 
cold  and  clear.  Even  with  the  present  slow  pace  of 
the  wind,  however,  a  little  incessant  demon-dance  of 
snuff-colored  dust  was  constantly  going  on  at  the  end 
of  the  canvas  chute.  Jeff  gave  it  as  his  opinion,  and 
the  Professor  agreed,  that  much  might  be  hoped  from 
their  unique  device. 

"This  late  in  the  year,"  said  Jeff  judgmatically, 
"of  course  sech  a  thing  as  snow  or  rain  is  likely. 
And  yet  I  don't  reckon  now  that  neither  of  'em  or 
both  would  make  much  difference.  The  sand's  bound 
to  be  dry  underneath,  d'ye  see,  an'  that's  where  our 
wind-break  gets  action.  No,  sir,"  he  went  on  con 
fidently,  as  though  replying  to  a  question,  "you  hear 
my  gentle  voice !  The  fust  time,  wet  or  dry,  the  wind 
teches  anything  like  a  storm-gait,  it  '11  nacherally 
swipe  said  offensive  protooberance  plumb  off  the  map. 
Once  the  topography  of  this  yere  region  has  been  so 
far  improved,  our  locatin'  of  Old  Tom  Moonlight's 
spring  ought  to  be  easy. " 

"I  think  as  you  do,  friend  Jeff,"  returned  the  Pro 
fessor,  rubbing  his  satisfied  hands.  "Yes,  I  really 
think  we  may  congratulate  ourselves.  All  we  have 
to  do  now  is  wait  for  a  wind  of  sufficient  volume,  con 
fident  of  reaping  from  our  arrangements  a  happiest 
possible  result. " 

The  Professor  set  out  for  the  Cross-8.  Robert's 
280 


THE    MONK'S    HILL 

condition  was  very  low,  and  Aunt  Tilda  being  cor 
respondingly  worried,  the  Professor  thought  it  the 
part  of  friendship  to  be  near  at  hand.  He  could  do 
nothing;  but  his  presence  might  comfort  Aunt  Tilda. 

Jeff,  pipe  in  mouth,  was  seated  by  his  camp  fire, 
enjoying  his  ease  and  dignity;  for  the  weather  was 
not  severe,  and  one  as  hardy  as  Jeff  might  easily  be 
comfortable  out  under  the  stars. 

At  a  distance  of  twenty  yards,  about  a  fire  of  their 
own — for  Jeff  held  that  two  fires  were  required  to  pre 
serve  a  caste — the  quintette  of  Mexicans  sat  jabbering 
exuberantly  over  a  game  of  monte.  Out  on  the  dusky 
plains  a  staccato  coyote  was  yelping  in  many  keys  at 
once,  and  the  fluttering  cascade  of  yelps  sounded  like 
a  dozen  coyotes. 

Suddenly,  as  Jeff  ruminated  and  puffed  at  his  Fruits 
and  Flowers,  a  dull  muttering  sound  was  heard,  which 
merged  finally  into  the  "thump-thump!"  of  hoofs. 
A  moment  later  the  Professor  mounted  upon  Socrates 
burst  into  the  circle  of  light  thrown  abroad  by  the 
camp  fire.  The  Professor  wore  an  unusual  look  of 
anxiety  which  almost  trenched  upon  alarm,  while 
Socrates  puffed  and  wheezed  as  though  he  had  been 
put  to  a  brisker  pace  than  common. 

" Friend  Jeff,"  cried  the  Professor  breathlessly, 
"I've  hurried  to  you  for  advice." 

"To  me  for  advice!"  repeated  the  astonished  Jeff, 
letting  fall  his  pipe.  "Which  I  shore  like  that!  An' 
you  the  best  eddicated  sharp  that  ever  made  a  moc 
casin  track  along  the  Canadian,  too !  Howsumdever," 
he  concluded,  regaining  his  pipe,  "proceed!  One 
thing  you  can  gamble  the  limit  on,  I'll  give  you  the 
best  in  the  shop. " 

281 


THE    THROWBACK 

The  Professor  in  an  agitated  voice  related  how 
Ethel,  about  midday  or  a  little  later,  left  the  Cross-8 
with  the  Dona  Inez,  and  had  not  returned.  The  Dona 
Inez  explained,  he  said,  that  she  had  parted  with 
Ethel  several  miles  out  to  the  south,  leaving  her  to 
continue  her  afternoon  ride  alone. 

"  An'  that  is  all  the  Red  Bull's  daughter  could  tell?" 
asked  Jeff  gravely,  as  though  summing  up.  "How 
about  Don  Anton?" 

"He  wasn't  at  the  Cross-8/1  returned  the  Professor. 
"They  said  that  he  rode  away  about  an  hour  before 
sundown." 

"Thar  bein',"  said  Jeff,  thoughtfully,  "no  one  but 
them  Cross-8  Mexicans  about,  of  course  you  could 
learn  nothin'.  Did  you  send  any  of  'em  out  to  make 
a  round-up  for  the  lost  girl?" 

The  Professor  explained  that  he  tried  to  make  up 
a  party,  and  had  failed.  That  was  the  feature  of  the 
case  which  caused  him  the  most  agitation.  Not  a 
Mexican  of  them  all  would  throw  saddle  on  pony. 

"They  looked  frightened,"  said  the  Professor,  his 
thin  face  paler  than  ever  in  the  flickering  light  of  the 
camp  fire.  "I  asked  the  major  domo  to  explain.  He 
only  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  said,  'In  the  morning 
they  will  go.  Now  they  are  afraid.' 

"' Afraid  of  what?'  I  asked. 

"'Of  Kiowas.' 

"That  was  all  I  could  get  from  him, "  concluded  the 
Professor,  "and  as  a  last  resort  I  came  to  you." 

"Of  Kiowas!"  repeated  Jeff,  who  had  been  struck 
by  the  fears  of  the  Mexicans,  and  the  old  major  domo's 
elucidation  of  them.  "Professor,  them  greasers  must 
have  seen  something.  This  is  their  own  country; 

2S2 


THE   MONK'S    HILL 

they're  at  home  yere;  and  if  they're  frightened  and 
say  'Kiowas,'  it's  a  pony  to  a  prairie  dog  thar's  a  passel 
of  hostile  Injuns  hoverin'  about.  Oh,  I  don't  mean/' 
he  went  on,  as  he  observed  the  heightened  look  of  con 
cern  in  the  Professor's  face,  "that  the  little  girl  has 
been  picked  up  by  Injuns.  Thar's  more  likely  ways 
than  that  of  accountin'  for  her  not  showin'  up  at  the 
Cross-8.  Her  pony  may  have  lamed  himself  by 
steppin'  into  a  prairie-dog  hole  or  by  stickin'  a  cactus 
thorn  in  his  hoof.  Either  way  the  little  girl  would  be 
put  afoot,  an'  it  would  then  take  her  hours  to  find  her 
way  back  to  the  Red  Bull's."  Then,  getting  to  his 
feet  with  an  air  of  resolution,  "  Professor,  let's  ride  to 
the  Cross-8,  an'  begin  our  hunt  from  thar." 

It  was  only  a  matter  of  minutes  when  Jeff  had  his 
pony  up  and  saddled.  As  they  pushed  along  under 
the  cottonwoods,  the  Professor  deplored  Socrates. 

"When  I  reach  the  ranch  I'll  get  a  pony,"  said  he. 
"Socrates  is  faithful,  but  sluggish." 

"Stick  to  the  mule,  Professor,"  advised  Jeff.  "In 
a  long  pull,  he'll  go  farther  than  any  pony.  To  be 
shore,  he  ain't  no  jackrabbit  for  speed;  but  he's  a 
laster,  an'  that's  what  counts." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  which  the  Professor  broke 
fiercely: 

"If  the  savages,  whosoever  they  may  be,  touch  but 
a  hair  of  her  head,  I  shall  devote  myself  to  their  de 
struction!  I  shall  hunt  them  day  and  night!" 

"An'  I'll  go  with  you  for  that  huntin',  Professor," 
enjoined  Jeff,  who  through  the  unfailing  instinct  of 
a  man  for  a  man  had  detected  beneath  the  mild  man 
ner  of  his  thin,  gray  friend  the  sterner  elements  of 
which  he  was  composed.  All  silk  and  granite  was  the 

283 


THE    THROWBACK 

good  Professor;  and  Jeff,  who  had  found  it  out,  would 
have  followed  him  through  fire  and  flood.  "  Yes,  sir, " 
concluded  Jeff,  "count  me  in  on  the  play.  Likewise, 
when  it  cornes  to  Kiowas  or  any  other  form  of  savage, 
I'm  a  heap  more  than  what  you'd  call  a  neeophyte." 

Jeff  rolled  the  last  word  under  his  tongue  like  a 
sweet  morsel,  for  he  dearly  loved  long  words. 

The  Professor,  encouraged  by  Jeff,  began  to  hope 
that  Ethel  might  have  found  her  way  to  the  Cross-8 
during  his  absence.  If  she  hadn't,  why,  then,  he  and 
Jeff  would  ride  southward  on  her  tracks,  as  indicated 
by  the  Dona  Inez,  and  seek  some  vital  sign  of  her  and 
Jet.  He  resolved,  also,  to  say  nothing  of  Ethel's  ab 
sence  to  Aunt  Tilda.  As  yet  the  latter  had  heard 
nothing,  being  employed  with  all  her  faculties  over 
Robert,  who  was  raving  with  delirium,  spouting  in- 
coherencies  about  Don  Anton,  the  Dove's  Nest,  Kio 
was  and  Pedro  of  the  Knife. 

When  the  Professor  and  Jeff  reached  the  Cross-8, 
they  learned  that  no  Ethel  had  returned.  Not  a 
whisper  of  tidings  concerning  her  had  floated  in.  Jeff 
declared  for  one  word  with  the  Dona  Inez. 

"  Your  Ethel  was  going  south/'  said  the  Dona  Inez 
coolly.  "  I  am  sure  she  will  come  back  safe  one  day. " 

And  that  was  all  they  received  from  the  haughty 
heiress  of  the  Red  Bull. 

It  was  creeping  on  toward  midnight  when  the  Pro 
fessor  and  Jeff  found  themselves  fairly  started  upon 
their  search  for  Ethel.  The  night  was  dark,  but  the 
darkness  offered  no  obstacle  to  so  old  a  plainsman  as 
Jeff.  Taking  the  lead,  the  Professor  close  at  his  heels 
with  Socrates,  he  held  his  course  as  straight  as  the 
flight  of  an  arrow.  Not  until  they  reached  the  trail 

284 


THE    MONK'S    HILL 

that  led  to  the  Dove's  Nest  was  word  spoken;  for 
Jeff  had  been  deep  in  thought,  and  the  Professor 
found  himself  borne  down  by  fears  that  tied  his  tongue 
and  stifled  conversation. 

It  was  Jeff  who  spoke. 

"  The  moon  will  be  up  in  an  hour,"  he  said.  "  That  '11 
give  us  a  better  light." 

The  Professor  made  no  reply;  his  thoughts  were 
sorrowfully  running  on  the  lost  Ethel,  and  what  Aunt 
Tilda's  feelings  must  be  when  she  discovered  her 
absence  in  the  morning. 

"Did  you  notice,"  observed  Jeff  after  a  pause, 
"how  the  Red  Bull's  daughter  wasn't  in  the  least 
stampeded  about  the  little  girl  not  comin'  home?" 

"No,"  responded  the  poor  Professor  absently,  "I 
was  considering  something  else,  I  fear.  I  can't  say 
that  I  gave  much  attention  to  her  manner." 

"All  the  same,  she  was  as  cool  as  a  cucumber  an'  as 
steady  as  a  church.  What  do  you  make  of  that?" 

"I'm  sure  I  can't  tell,"  replied  the  Professor.  "It 
could  not  have  been  heartlessness  or  cold  indifference, 
for  she  loves  Ethel  dearly." 

"Exactly!  Then,  since  she  was  cool,  an'  it  wasn't 
as  you  say  from  heartlessness,  it  must  have  been  be 
cause  she  had  no  fears  for  the  little  girl's  safety.  Pro 
fessor" — here  Jeff  became  gravely  emphatic — "that 
Dona  Inez  knows  where  your  Ethel  girl  is,  an'  knows 
she's  safe." 

"I  don't  understand,"  rejoined  the  Professor,  rous 
ing  up.  "Explain  yourself,  friend  Jeff." 

"I  wish  I  could,"  said  Jeff;  "but  the  diffukelty  is 
that  I'm  as  deep  in  the  mud  as  you  are  in  the  mire. 
All  I  can  say  is  that  the  Dona  Inez,  for  all  the  talk  of 

285 


THE    THROWBACK 

Kiowas,  wasn't  skeered;  an',  Professor,  I  draws  a 
heap  of  hope  from  that." 

They  were  already  upon  the  north  and  south  trail, 
and  jogging  briskly  along  toward  the  Dove's  Nest. 
The  moon  had  cleared  itself  in  the  eastern  heavens, 
and  the  rough  landscape  stood  out  bold  and  obvious 
in  the  silvery  light.  Jeff  had  not  told  the  Professor 
his  whole  mind,  and  as  he  rode  on  the  problem  of 
Ethel's  disappearance  was  being  turned  upon  his  busy 
wheel  of  thought  with  this  result : 

"That  Dona  Inez,"  ruminated  Jeff,  "allows  she 
parts  with  the  Ethel  girl  out  miles  from  the  Cross-8, 
an'  that  on  partin'  with  her  the  Ethel  girl  continues 
to  the  south.  If  that  statement  means  anything,  it's 
this:  Neither  of  'em  was  ridin'  for  reelaxation;  thar 
was  something  serious  afoot.  When  the  Dona  Inez 
wheeled,  it  was  to  come  back  to  the  Cross-8;  an'  when 
the  little  Ethel  girl  keeps  on  to  the  south,  it's  shore 
she  has  some  other  destination  in  her  eye.  An'  yet 
thar's  nothin'  to  the  south  but  the  Dove's  Nest. "  At 
this  point  Jeff  balked  a  bit  in  his  deductions.  After 
a  pause,  however,  his  lucubrations  took  on  a  renewed 
and  vigorous  emphasis.  "Yes,  sir,"  he  went  on  to 
himself,  "that's  it,  simply  because  it  can't  be  nothin' 
else.  That  Ethel  girl  was  p'intin'  out  for  the  Dove's 
Nest.  Shore,  I  can't  say  why;  but  I  can  see  that  sech 
is  the  fact  jest  the  same.  Bar  Kiowas,  it's  bloo  chips 
to  white  right  now  that  we  finds  her  with  the  Cap'n. 
I  wonder  what  lays  at  the  bottom  of  this  yere  romance. 
I  s'pose  I'll  find  out  by  sun-up;  but  as  the  game 
stands  it's  a  heap  too  many  for  me." 

Not  being  conventional,  and  having  been  reared 
to  those  broad  social  freedoms  which  flourish  in  the 

286 


THE    MONK'S    HILL 

southwest,  Jeff  beheld  no  daunting  impropriety  in  the 
surmise  that  Ethel  had  gone  upon  a  night  gallop  to 
the  Dove's  Nest.  He  thought  it  odd,  for  he  could 
guess  no  purpose  on  her  part.  Also,  he  could  not  ex 
plain  to  his  own  satisfaction  why  she  should  leave  the 
Cross-8  without  word  or  sign  of  her  intentions. 

"Still,  I  reckon,"  he  considered  resignedly,  "that 
after  all  it's  only  one  of  them  things  that  women  does, 
of  which  the  reason  is  past  findin'  out." 

"Professor,"  observed  Jeff,  at  last  waxing  audible, 
"that  Dona  Inez  saveys  a  mighty  sight  more  about 
what's  become  of  your  little  Ethel  girl  than  she's  told. 
For  all  that,  you'll  remember  how  she  says  the  little 
one  is  safe;  an'  while  as  a  roole  I  don't  bank  none  on 
what  any  greaser,  he  or  she,  gives  out,  I  inclines  to 
believe  the  word  of  that  Dona  Inez  person  in  this  yere 
partic'lar  instance." 


287 


CHAPTER  XXII 

IRONJACKET  PAYS  A  PATERNAL  VISIT 

WHEN  Ethel  raised  her  eyes  to  those  of  Moonlight, 
they  had  in  them  a  timid  look  of  appeal.  It  was  as 
though  she  feared  some  hasty  or  adverse  judgment, 
and  would  offer  against  it  her  gentle  protest.  Such 
a  look  was  beyond  the  wisdom,  as  being  beyond  the 
experience,  of  Moonlight;  had  he  truly  read  its  mean 
ing  of  half  apology,  it  would  have  mystified  him 
vastly.  With  nothing  to  instruct  him,  however,  save 
his  own  rudely  meager  past,  he  beheld  only  a  beau 
tiful  girl,  wounded,  and  just  taken  by  a  miracle  from 
between  the  very  teeth  of  death.  Also  he  felt  guiltily 
abashed  concerning  the  unamended  freedom  of  that 
surgery. 

This  latter  feeling  was  somewhat  accentuated,  when 
Ethel,  as  if  by  an  instinct  latent  in  her  fingers,  brought 
the  slashed  sleeve  together,  so  as  to  hide  again  the 
wounded,  naked  shoulder,  the  red  deepening  mean 
while  in  her  cheek  and  on  her  brow.  As  screening 
his  own  feeling  of  confusion  Moonlight,  for  his  side, 
resorted  not  only  to  words  but  actions.  He  whipped 
the  handkerchief  from  his  neck,  the  one  upon  which 
was  that  embroidered  "E,"  and  bound  it  with  a  tight 
neatness  about  Ethel's  wounded  arm.  As  he  did  so 
he  said: 

"It  was  I  who  cut  your  frock.  I  feared  that  the 
arrow  might  have  been  poisoned." 

288 


IRONJACKET  PAYS  A  VISIT 

Moonlight  spoke  in  steady  level  tones,  as  though 
arrow-pierced  maidens  were  many  in  his  life,  and  not 
to  be  particularly  remarked.  That  outward  calm 
ness,  however,  was  wholly  of  the  surface;  within,  he 
burned  like  a  volcano.  The  feel  of  that  snow  and 
velvet  shoulder  on  his  lips  had  been  as  a  torch  to  tow. 
Dull  and  thick  as  he  was  to  any  emotion  which  should 
touch  the  heart,  even  he  had  begun  to  know  that  he 
would  give  his  soul  for  one  look  of  love  from  this  girl. 
Loyal  to  his  savage  schooling,  however,  his  face  re 
mained  as  expressionless  as  the  face  of  a  statue. 

When  Moonlight  spoke  of  possible  poison,  he  was 
quick  to  catch  the  terror  that  came  struggling  up 
through  the  red  in  Ethel's  face,  to  whiten  anew  the 
rose-leaf  lips.  At  this  sinister  sign,  he  made  haste 
to  modify  his  bluntness. 

"To  be  sure,"  he  said,  "the  chance  of  poison  is  so 
slight  that  it  can't  be  measured.  Indeed,  it  is  not 
worth  mentioning.  Still,  I  thought  it  better  to  pro 
vide  against  it."  Then,  as  drawing  attention  from 
a  subject  that  even  his  untaught  sensibilities  recog 
nized  as  delicate,  he  asked :  "Can  you  stand?  Is  that 
scratch  on  the  shoulder  your  only  injury?" 

Ethel,  for  all  that  healthful  red,  was  far  from  being 
restored.  What  she  had  passed  through  had  shaken 
her  woefully.  She  could  still  hear  the  yells  and  see 
the  painted  demon-faces  pursuing  her.  The  memory 
was  close  and  overpowering,  and  hung  about  her  like 
a  vision  of  horror.  It  was  that  even  more  than  the 
words  of  Moonlight,  which  stole  the  color  from  her 
lips  and  pinched  the  corners  of  her  pretty  mouth. 
Over  and  beyond  that  mere  feeling  of  passive  horror, 
Ethel  also  remained  mentally  vague  and  weak.  Moon- 

289 


THE    THROWBACK 

light  himself  performed  with  a  fortunate  thoughtful- 
ness  in  keeping  between  her  and  that  dead,  first 
Kiowa  who,  stiff  and  stark,  glassy  eyes  staring  up 
to  the  blue  above,  lay  stretched  not  a  dozen  feet  away. 
With  nerves  a-quake  and  her  whole  nature  over 
strung  by  that  recent  hideous  peril,  such  a  bloody 
spectacle  of  death  would  have  meant  collapse. 

Moonlight  repeated  his  question,  holding  out  his 
hand  as  though  to  aid  her. 

"Can  you  stand?" 

"I  think  I  can,"  she  replied. 

The  words  came  falteringly,  but  there  was  a  sub 
lime  struggle  to  be  brave.  He  gently  lifted  her  to  her 
feet.  The  effort  was  too  much;  her  knees  shook,  the 
color  again  fled  from  her  face.  Her  eyes  swam;  she 
seemed  to  grope  for  support  with  her  hands;  and  next 
she  would  have  fallen,  had  he  not  caught  her  up. 

Moonlight  held  Ethel,  fainting  and  limp,  in  the  hol 
low  of  his  arm,  as  a  mother  might  a  child,  making 
little  or  nothing  of  her  rounded  one  hundred  and  thirty 
pounds.  At  his  whistle  President  trotted  up.  The 
sweet  situation  was  a  mighty  enigma  to  the  sagacity 
of  President,  as  one  might  know  from  his  sharpened 
ear  and  questioning  eye. 

In  a  moment  Moonlight  was  in  the  saddle,  his  dear 
burden  safe  in  the  sure  cradle  of  his  arms. 

"And  now  for  the  Dove's  Nest!"  he  cried. 

President  appeared  to  understand,  for  with  bridle 
reins  loose  upon  his  neck,  he  struck  out  gallantly 
toward  the  south.  There  was,  too,  an  elastic  fresh 
ness  to  his  stride.  It  seemed  to  tell  of  a  knowledge 
on  his  part  of  a  present  necessity  for  speed,  if  he  cared 
to  keep  his  standing  with  his  master.  He  rolled  up 

290 


IRONJACKET  PAYS  A  VISIT 

the  miles  beneath  him,  as  though  he  had  been  saddled 
for  the  first  time  that  day. 

When  President  broke  south  for  the  Dove's  Nest, 
poor  Jet,  hobbling  on  three  legs,  entered  a  squeal  of 
remonstrance  against  being  left  alone.  Protest  dis 
regarded,  Jet,  the  gregarious,  looked  about  for  the 
Indian  ponies.  Stiff  and  sore,  they  too  were  a  mile 
away,  making  painfully  for  their  own  home  camp, 
which  lay  beyond  the  western  ridge.  Like  President, 
they  had  turned  their  unsympathetic  tails  on  poor 
Jet.  Being  thus  abandoned,  the  latter,  gazing  first 
at  the  flying  President  and  then  at  the  two  Indian 
ponies,  decided  in  favor  of  the  former.  Jet's  pursuit, 
however,  was  but  a  poor  and  limping  one;  such  a 
snail's  crawl  should  bring  him  late  to  the  Dove's 
Nest. 

The  Dove's  Nest,  in  the  ground-plan  of  its  architec 
ture,  in  no  wise  bore  resemblance  to  the  defensive 
Cross-8.  The  purpose  of  its  construction  had  been 
trade  with  the  Indians,  and  your  fur  traders  had 
nothing  to  fear.  The  Indian  has  never  been  a  com- 
mercialist,  and  what  traffic  he  from  time  to  time  em 
barked  upon  was  ever  a  failure  and  a  fizzle;  which 
militates  against  those  theories  advanced  in  certain 
learned  quarters  that  he  is  a  descendant  of  a  lost 
Israel.  And  yet,  unwise  in  barter  as  the  Indian  was, 
he  knew  enough  not  to  molest  his  traders.  These 
latter  adventurous  gentry  were  his  one  market.  To 
them  he  disposed  of  his  robes  and  furs;  through  them 
he  received  his  lead  and  powder  and  rifles  and  calico 
and  beads  and  iron  arrow-heads,  to  say  nothing  of  that 
awful  pine-top  whiskey  which  so  warmed  and  satis 
fied  the  cockles  of  his  aboriginal  heart.  For  all  of 

291 


THE    THROWBACK 

which  he  became  never  so  blindly  blood-hungry  as 
to  bend  arrow  or  lift  war  axe  against  the  traders.  And 
because  of  this  safety,  what  ones  tossed  up  the  Dove's 
Nest,  in  its  building  had  thought  only  of  a  store  house 
and  those  few  rude  buildings  called  for  by  their  com 
fort. 

The  main  structure  was  a  long  'dobe  building  put 
up  Mexican  fashion.  It  possessed  two  rooms,  in  one 
of  which  the  traders  had  lived,  while  in  the  other  they 
stored  their  goods.  About  the  'dobe  house,  and  en 
closing  a  quarter  of  an  acre  of  ground,  had  been 
thrown  a  'dobe  fence,  well  toward  six  feet  in  height. 
In  one  corner  of  this  huge  yard  or  corral  bubbled  the 
spring  from  which  the  Dove's  Nest  drew  its  water  sup 
ply.  In  the  corner  opposite  stood  a  camp  house,  the 
latter  edifice  having  but  one  room,  and  being  of  a 
later  construction  than  the  main  building.  One  wide 
gateway  in  the  north  wall  of  the  'dobe  fence  was  the 
sole  opening  to  the  outer  world.  For  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  or  more  in  all  directions  about  the  Dove's  Nest 
the  ground,  except  for  a  coverlet  of  harsh  grass,  lay 
bare  and  open.  No  one  could  come  near  the  place 
without  being  seen,  unless  he  called  to  his  aid  the 
cover  of  night. 

This  latter  stratagem  no  Indian  would  resort  to, 
since  your  Indian  is  so  much  the  Parthian  that  it  is 
against  his  religion  to  fight  in  the  night.  When  the 
sun  goes  down  begins  the  daytime  of  the  ghosts;  and 
your  Indian,  during  the  hours  of  night,  lies  close,  so  as 
to  leave  an  uninterrupted  earth  for  the  spirits  of  his 
forefathers  to  roam  upon.  It  is  one  of  his  points  of 
theology. 

Moonlight  rode  in  through  the  open  gateway  of  the 
292 


IRONJACKET  PAYS  A  VISIT 

Dove's  Nest,  Ethel  folded  close  in  his  arms.  The  long 
run  and  the  double  burden  had  told  but  slightly  on 
the  tireless  President.  Moonlight  stepped  gently  from 
the  saddle,  carefully  guarding  the  wounded  shoulder 
against  a  pang. 

Ethel  throughout  that  sweeping  journey  had  dis 
played  no  sign  of  life.  Her  eyes  were  closed;  not  a 
word  had  come  from  her  lips.  Only  a  returning  color, 
and  now  and  then  a  sigh,  had  been  offered  as  a  sup 
port  to  Moonlight's  courage.  These  he  had  marked 
with  gratitude,  since  otherwise  he  might  have  believed 
her  dead. 

"  She  is  in  a  swoon, "  he  thought,  for  in  the  poverty 
of  his  knowledge  he  supposed  that  a  lady  might  faint 
indefinitely. 

Descending  from  the  saddle,  with  a  firm  conviction 
of  Ethel's  unconsciousness,  it  was  as  much  a  shock  as 
a  relief  to  Moonlight  when  she  said : 

"  Put  me  down,  please !    I'm  sure  I  can  walk  now. " 

The  blushing  truth  was  that  the  springy  lope  of 
President  had  not  left  the  hobbling,  squealing  Jet  a 
mile  behind  when  Ethel's  wits  came  back  to  her.  At 
first  but  dimly,  and  only  in  partial  fashion.  She  could 
feel  herself  borne  along  at  a  pace  whereof,  for  all  her 
many  excursions  upon  Jet,  she  had  hitherto  no  more 
than  dreamed.  The  motion  was  easy,  secure,  like 
that  of  a  rocking  chair  or  a  hammock.  She  experi 
enced  a  trifling  pain  in  the  wounded  shoulder;  but 
her  position  was  such,  and  she  was  held  so  fondly  safe 
from  jar  or  jolt,  that  it  was  in  no  wise  aggravated ;  and 
indeed  she  hardly  felt  it. 

Little  by  little  the  mists  cleared  from  her  memory. 
She  recalled  the  dangers  that  had  threatened,  and  her 

293 


THE    THROWBACK 

sudden  rescue  from  them.  Then  there  rose  up  a  pic 
ture  of  Moonlight,  as  he  bound  her  wounded  shoulder 
with  that  "E"  embroidered  handkerchief.  It  was  at 
this  crisis  that  Moonlight's  hopes  were  uplifted  by  a 
reassuring  scarlet  breaking  forth  on  brow  and  throat 
and  cheek;  for  Ethel,  in  this  new  brightness  of  her 
intelligence,  recalled  the  unique  if  charming  surgery 
wherewith  her  arrow-pierced  shoulder  had  been 
treated. 

On  recovering  herself  fully  Ethel's  natural  impulse 
was  to  speak.  There  came  to  her,  however,  divers 
reasons  against  it.  The  swift  motion,  and  the  muffled 
drumming  of  President's  hoofs,  all  but  made  talk  im 
possible.  Besides,  being  borne  as  she  was  like  a  child 
in  the  powerful  arms  of  Moonlight,  conversation  would 
be  embarrassing.  Nor  could  the  situation  be  mended ; 
in  his  arms  she  must  continue  until  they  reached  their 
destination.  Such  being  the  circumstance,  silence 
and  the  semblance  of  insensibility  offered  a  best  refuge. 
Once  she  were  released  she  might  explain  her  gratitude 
and  give  that  warning  which  had  brought  her  so  far 
from  the  conventional  and  the  Cross-8,  at  one  and  the 
same  time. 

As  Ethel  mapped  out  this  satisfactory  programme, 
she  lay  with  closed  eyes,  her  head  on  the  strong 
shoulder  of  him  who  had  saved  her  from  beneath 
the  very  paw  of  destruction.  She  could  feel  the  meas 
ured  beating  of  his  heart.  Also  she  realized,  being 
a  maiden  well  brought  up,  that  the  proprieties  de 
manded  she  be  more  or  less  beset  of  a  maidenly  con 
fusion;  and  she  was  not  a  trifle  dismayed  to  discover 
that  she  experienced  only  a  great,  serene,  heart-filling 
joy  instead. 

294 


IRONJACKET  PAYS  A  VISIT 

"Yes,"  repeated  Ethel,  as  Moonlight  did  not  at 
once  reply,  "I'm  certain  I  can  walk." 

Moonlight  released  her,  and  to  be  sure  she  did  stand 
on  her  own  two  little  feet  quite  steadily.  Fearing, 
however,  that  she  might  fall  if  she  moved,  the  anxious 
Moonlight  hung  over  her,  ready  to  again  seize  her  in 
his  arms.  This  gave  him  the  attitude  of  some  ten 
derly  solicitous  hawk  about  to  swoop. 

"You're  sure,"  he  observed  at  last,  "you're  quite 
sure,  Miss " 

"  Pryce, "  said  Ethel  with  much  calmness.  She  had 
noted  his  hesitation,  and  deemed  it  the  fitting  time  to 
put  him  in  possession  of  her  name.  Also  her  instincts 
told  her  that,  for  all  his  iron  steadiness,  he  was  privily 
afraid  of  her,  and  that  gave  her  the  confidence  of  a 
conqueror.  "Pryce,"  she  continued,  "Ethel  Pryce." 

Ethel!  Then  that  embroidered  "E"  stood  for 
Ethel !  It  was  a  beautiful  name !  Moonlight  repeated 
it  softly  to  himself : 

"Ethel!" 

It  was  in  the  first  twilight  fringes  of  the  night,  as  the 
pair  stood  thus  facing  one  another  in  the  Dove's  Nest 
corral.  As  though  to  relieve  them  from  a  situation 
that  was  not  without  its  Difficulties,  Red  River  at  this 
crisis  threw  open  the  door  of  the  'dobe  house.  Doubt 
less  Red  River  was  amazed  at  the  unexpected  return 
of  Moonlight.  Likewise  the  noble  company  he  had 
brought  home  with  him  must  have  proved  confusing. 
For  all  that,  the  imperturbable  Red  River  showed  no 
surprise;  being,  like  Moonlight,  too  much  a  creature 
of  his  times  and  breeding  to  display  astonishment, 
however  grave  the  provocation.  In  fact,  the  words 
of  Red  River  would  have  led  up  to  a  belief  that  he  had 

295 


THE    THROWBACK 

fully  expected  the  coming  of  both  Ethel  and  Moon 
light. 

"  Howdy,  folks, "  quoth  Red  River,  coolly.  "  Grub's 
ready." 

Then  flourishing  on  high  an  empty  bucket  he  struck 
across  the  corral  to  the  spring. 

Moonlight  stepped  forward  as  though  to  assist 
Ethel  into  the  house,  through  the  open  door  of  which 
the  fire  sent  a  rosy  flood  of  light.  Ethel,  however, 
forestalled  his  aid,  and  herself  led  the  way. 

Moonlight,  once  she  was  across  the  threshold,  set 
himself  to  do  the  honors  of  the  place.  He  gave  her 
a  seat  near  the  fire,  for  the  night  was  cool  enough  to 
warrant  it.  Then — for  he  still  carried  a  possibility 
of  poisoned  arrows  on  his  mind — he  went  about  re 
moving  that  handkerchief  of  the  embroidered  "E," 
with  which  he  had  bound  the  injured  shoulder.  Eth 
el's  impulse  was  to  object;  but  instantly  she  appreci 
ated  the  spurious  modesty  of  such  objection,  and  sub 
mitted. 

Red  River  came  in,  and  stood  watching.  The  little 
blood  to  flow,  since  the  handkerchief  was  applied,  had 
dried  and  made  the  silk  stiff  and  harsh.  Red  River, 
at  this,  poured  water  into  a  basin,  and  was  for  soaking 
the  handkerchief  so  that  it  might  be  removed  without 
reopening  the  wounds. 

Moonlight  intercepted  the  excellent  Red  River  just 
as  he  was  about  to  apply  the  water.  Sternly  he  waved 
him  aside,  and  took  the  basin  from  him  with  an  awful 
air  of  reproof.  There  was  jealousy,  ownership,  rever 
ence  for  the  fair  patient,  all  blended  together  in  that 
air.  Ethel  observed  it,  and  was  fain  to  smile  a  little 
in  a  covert  way.  The  smile  deepened  pleasantly, 

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IRONJACKET  PAYS  A  VISIT 

when  she  saw  how  carefully  he  put  that  embroidered 
handkerchief  in  his  pocket,  once  he  had  recovered  it. 

The  wronged  shoulder  appeared  swollen  a  trifle,  but 
not  much;  and  this  latter  was  a  hopeful  indication. 
Upon  Moonlight's  recommendation,  however,  and  to 
make  assurance  sure,  the  wound  was  again  bound  up 
in  a  mild  application  of  crushed  onions  and  salt. 

"  It  will  settle  every  question  of  poison,  Miss — Miss 
Ethel,"  he  explained,  blundering  a  bit  on  the  name. 

Ethel  gave  way  with  grace;  for  she  could  see  that 
Moonlight's  concern  was  real. 

Being  repulsed  from  the  surgery,  Red  River  bent  his 
energies  to  setting  a  table  for  supper.  With  so  much 
good  company,  he  was  disposed,  as  he  would  have 
phrased  it,  "to  go  the  limit,"  and  proceeded  to  sup 
plement  the  buffalo  steaks,  biscuits  and  coffee,  which 
had  formed  his  original  supper-scheme,  with  preserves 
and  tomatoes  and  sweet-corn  and  other  delicacies 
which  he  took  from  certain  tin  cans.  Continuing  the 
good  work,  he  spread  the  table  with  an  alarming  array 
of  tin  ware  in  the  guise  of  plates  and  cups  and  basins, 
and  enforced  these  with  a  profusion  of  knives,  forks 
and  spoons.  Altogether  Red  River  laid  the  founda 
tions  of  a  most  recklessly  gorgeous  repast;  for  he 
meant  that  the  entertainment  should  do  credit  to  the 
Dove's  Nest  and  its  master. 

While  about  these  labors,  Red  River  stole  now  and 
then  a  questioning  glance  at  Ethel  and  Moonlight, 
whistling  softly  the  meditative  while,  as  one  who  is 
preyed  upon  by  thoughts.  Ethel,  acting  on  those 
hints  in  costume  offered  aforetime  by  the  example  of 
the  Dona  Inez,  wore  a  reboza  about  her  head  like  a 
hood.  Now  she  unfastened  it  and  drew  it  over  her 

297 


THE   THROWBACK 

shoulders,  which  made  her  more  beautiful  than  before. 
Red  River  had  by  this  time  spread  his  table  with 
what  he  would  have  thought  to  be  a  feast  for  kings 
and  emperors;  but  before  Ethel  would  partake  of  it, 
she  insisted  on  telling  the  purpose  upon  which  she  came. 

"  For  you  must  know, "  said  she  to  Moonlight,  "  that 
I  was  trying  to  reach  the  Dove's  Nest  when  those  sav 
ages" — here  she  shuddered — "discovered  me." 

" The  Dove's  Nest?" 

Moonlight  arched  his  brows  inquiringly.  Ethel 
went  straight  ahead,  and  related  how  the  Kiowas,  led 
by  Pedro  of  the  Knife,  planned  to  attack  him  that 
very  night. 

" To-night?"  repeated  Moonlight,  while  Red  River 
gave  interested  heed.  "The  attack  then  will  occur 
as  day  is  breaking."  Red  River  nodded  agreement 
to  this.  "Yes,"  continued  Moonlight,  "we  must  look 
for  them  with  the  first  streaks  of  morning."  Then, 
addressing  Ethel:  "You  speak  of  Pedro  of  the  Knife; 
has  Don  Anton  Baca,  or  that  young  gentleman  I  met 
in  front  of  the  lodge  of  Ironjacket,  no  hand  in  this?" 

Ethel  had  failed  to  mention  Don  Anton.  In  thus 
hiding  his  name  she  was  thinking  only  on  the  Dona 
Inez.  Robert  she  had  not  brought  into  her  story  for 
obvious  reasons.  Pedro  of  the  Knife,  and  those  Kio 
was,  were  the  only  active  forces,  as  she  understood 
the  design;  wherefore  she  saw  no  necessity  for  going 
beyond  their  number.  Both  Don  Anton  and  Robert 
might  with  safety  to  those  most  concerned  be  left 
out  of  the  narrative,  and  this  course  would  save  per 
haps  some  later  heartaches.  Now,  when  Moonlight 
put  the  query,  Ethel  became  artful.  She  skipped  all 
mention  of  Don  Anton  and  went  on  to  Robert. 

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IRONJACKET  PAYS  A  VISIT 

"The  gentleman  to  whom  you  refer/7  she  said,  "as 
being  at  the  lodge  of  the  Indian,  is  lying  ill.  He  is 
not  strong,  and  a  recent  exposure  to  a  fearful  snow 
storm  has  brought  him  to  the  door  of  death." 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  Moonlight.  He  could  under 
stand  the  last. 

Ethel  offered  no  particulars  as  to  how  she  came  by 
her  information;  she  had  brought  them  warning,  that 
was  all. 

Nor  did  Moonlight  press  for  details  or  sources.  He 
had  but  to  add  that  warning  to  what  he  was  already 
aware  of,  to  know  the  whole  intrigue.  He  realized 
Robert's  part  therein,  for  all  he  was  lying  ill.  Pedro 
of  the  Knife  and  the  Kiowas,  set  on  and  perhaps  ac 
companied  by  Don  Anton,  would  make  the  attack; 
but  it  was  Robert's  work  in  Austin,  and  those  papers 
he  brought  back,  which  were  to  furnish  the  basis  of 
it.  It  must  be  admitted,  however,  that  Moonlight 
concerned  himself  but  little  with  these  reflections, 
which  hardly  wandered  beyond  a  heartfelt  hope  that 
Don  Anton,  in  his  own  dandified  person,  might  make 
one  for  the  assault. 

"I  could  then  settle  accounts  with  the  scoundrel," 
thought  Moonlight. 

When  she  had  told  the  object  of  her  coming,  Ethel 
stretched  out  her  little  hand  to  Moonlight,  while  her 
dark  eyes  shone  softly. 

"And  now,"  she  said,  "I  want  to  tell  you  my  grat 
itude — my  more  than  gratitude!  You  saved  my  life 
to-day." 

"Gratitude!"  cried  Moonlight,  half  in  wonder,  half 
in  tender  rebuke.  "Gratitude!  And  pray,  let  me 
ask,  what  do  I  not  owe  you  for  all  you  have  dared  and 

299 


THE    THROWBACK 

suffered  in  our  behalf?  No,  say  no  more  of  gratitude. 
Some  day,  some  near  day,  I  hope  to  tell  you  all  I  now 
feel." 

Red  River  cast  upon  his  young  leader  a  sidelong 
look  of  astonishment.  Could  this  individual,  whose 
voice  broke,  whose  tongue  stammered,  whose  agita 
tion  was  almost  aspen — could  this  be  the  unshakable 
Captain  Moonlight?  Red  River  began  to  distrust  his 
ears  and  eyes.  He  went  out  into  the  darkness  of  the 
night  to  meditate  upon  the  strangeness  of  things.  As 
he  stepped  across  the  threshold,  he  heard  behind  him 
the  voice  of  Ethel  asking: 

"And  your  name,  please?" 

"Moonlight,"  was  the  reply.  "You  may  call  me 
Moonlight,  if  you  will." 

Following  the  retreat  of  Red  River,  Moonlight  set 
himself  to  explain  her  surroundings  to  Ethel. 

"You  will  have  this  house  to  yourself,  of  course," 
he  said.  "Red  River  and  I  will  find  quarters  else 
where." 

Then  he  showed  her  how  she  had  but  to  let  down  a 
great  oaken  bar,  and  the  heavy  door  would  be  closed 
against  any  outside  force. 

"It's  the  only  door,"  he  explained,  "and  since  the 
three  windows  are  defended  by  bars  too  closely  set  to 
admit  even  a  cat,  you  may  make  yourself  as  safe  as 
you  please.  Also,  that  couch  of  bear  skins  and  Na- 
vajo  blankets  will  offer  you  a  fairly  soft  sleeping 
place." 

Having  said  this  much,  and  possessing  no  genius 
for  small  talk,  Moonlight  lapsed  into  silence.  He 
would  have  liked  well  to  converse  with  Ethel  about 
her  people,  but  he  knew  so  much  of  Robert,  and  his 

300 


IRONJACKET  PAYS  A  VISIT 

meditated  villainy  toward  himself,  that  he  was  obliged 
to  forbear.  He  remembered  the  photograph  in  his 
pocket,  and  was  for  showing  it  to  her.  That,  too,  he 
put  off  for  a  better  occasion,  on  the  same  argu 
ment  that  kept  him  silent  concerning  Ethel's  home 
surroundings.  What  wore  upon  him  not  a  little  was 
a  besetting  consciousness  of  being  awkwardly  unfin 
ished  and  uncouth.  The  fineness  of  Ethel  affected 
him  like  a  criticism;  he  was  proud  of  it,  in  love  with 
it,  and  afraid  of  it  all  in  one.  It  made  him  know  him 
self  to  be  as  rudely,  crudely  savage  as  a  cinnamon 
bear;  and  yet  he  would  not  have  had  that  fineness 
diminished  by  one  least  fraction.  It  might  set  her 
above  and  beyond  his  love;  but  she  would  still  be 
within  reach  of  his  worship.  In  this  connection,  he 
remarked  as  wondrous,  and  not  without  some  sense 
of  loss  on  his  own  part,  that  all  of  the  bragging  self- 
confidence  which  had  carried  him  so  insolently  until 
now,  was  oozed  away  completely.  In  her  presence 
he  felt  that  everything  about  him,  his  dress,  his  man 
ner,  his  looks,  his  speech,  even  his  admiration,  not  to 
say  adoration,  needed  apology. 

Ethel  could  almost  read  what  was  passing  in  his 
thoughts.  She  settled  herself  more  confidently  among 
the  bear  skins  upon  which  she  was  seated,  as  the  re 
sult  of  it.  And  yet  she  herself  could  think  of  little 
or  nothing  to  say.  Certainly,  it  was  no  time  for  the 
commonplace.  She  caught  herself  stealing  a  glance 
at  the  chiseled  outlines  of  his  face.  Those  marvelous 
eyes,  that  had  frozen  Robert,  were  a  study  of  never 
flagging  interest,  as  they  deepened  and  softened  in 
the  firelight,  or  lighted  up  with  concern  when  some 
thought  for  her  comfort  or  safety  occurred  to  him. 

301 


THE    THROWBACK 

She  could  see  that  he  was  woefully  fearful  of  offend 
ing  her  or  gaining  a  poor  place  in  her  esteem;  and 
this  of  itself  was  like  a  compliment.  The  compliment 
likewise  was  granted  edge  and  flavor,  because  all  the 
time  she  could  feel  and  find  safety  for  herself  in  that 
atmosphere  of  the  invincible  which  was  parcel  of  him. 

"It  is  true, "  thought  Ethel,  "he  fears  me,  but  there 
his  fear  ends.  Yes" — she  smiled  softly — "I  am  quite 
sure,  and  therein  lies  the  flattery  of  it,  that  I  am  his 
only  weakness." 

Ethel  could  not  avoid  reflecting  on  the  steady  as 
surance  wherewith  both  Moonlight  and  Red  River 
had  received  her  news  of  the  intended  descent  upon 
the  Dove's  Nest.  They  accepted  it  as  they  might 
any  most  careless  piece  of  information,  while  evincing 
every  turgid  intention  to  be  ferociously  prepared. 
Therein  abode  the  marvel  of  these  men;  and  the  very 
thought  of  it  would  shorten  her  breath,  and  quicken 
her  pulse,  to  prove  her  admiration.  She  found  her 
self  placing  implicit  confidence  in  these  dauntless  ones, 
and  by  the  light  of  their  courage  discovered  her  own. 

"It  isn't  hard,  I  find, "  she  thought,  "for  the  woman 
to  be  brave  when  the  man  is  brave.  His  heart  is  her 
heart  in  a  peril  such  as  this,  and  she  is  strong  as  he  is 
strong." 

While  Ethel  was  pleasing  herself  with  these  scraps 
of  psychical  philosophy,  Moonlight  said  diffidently 
that  he  would  now  go. 

"You  must  be  extremely  tired,"  he  argued,  apol 
ogetically,  "and  ought  to  rest.  Be  sure  and  let  me 
hear  you  drop  that  bar  in  place,  when  I  have  closed 
the  door  behind  me."  He  paused  a  moment  on  the 
threshold — "You  are  very  brave,"  he  went  on,  "and 

302 


IRONJACKET  PAYS  A  VISIT 

so  I  shall  say  a  further  word.  Pedro  of  the  Knife, 
with  his  Kiowas,  should  be  here  about  break  of  day. 
No  matter  what  occurs,  don't  unbar  the  door.  Lie 
close  on  those  bear  skins,  and  avoid  the  windows. 
An  arrow,  or  a  bullet  gone  astray,  might  else  find  you 
out  by  accident. " 

"Tell  me,"  she  said  wistfully,  "are  we  in  great  dan 
ger?" 

He  laughed  with  a  hardy  coolness  wherein  Ethel 
found  comfort. 

"Miss  Ethel,  I  give  you  my  honor,"  he  returned, 
"that  Pedro  of  the  Knife,  and  his  Kiowas,  are  the 
ones  who  should  talk  of  danger.  Whatever  is  our  risk, 
theirs  is  ten-fold  greater.  No,  I  pledge  you  my  word 
that  you  shall  see  your  friends  again;  and  that  within 
forty-eight  hours,  though  all  the  Kiowas  that  ever 
yelped  along  the  Canadian  stood  in  the  way." 

When  Moonlight  was  gone,  Ethel  lay  down  upon  the 
bear  skins.  She  did  not  expect  to  sleep;  what  she 
had  encountered,  and  what  was  still  to  come,  should 
be  sufficient  to  scare  away  slumber  from  eyelids  less 
nervous  than  were  hers.  The  sequel  disappointed 
her.  She  was  thinking  on  Aunt  Tilda,  and  Robert, 
and  a  score  more  matters,  each  a  reason  for  sadness, 
when  the  sweet  release  came  that  sent  her  away  to  a 
world  of  dreams.  Nor  were  they  dreams  of  horror 
and  of  sudden  death;  but  ran  on  altars,  and  priests, 
and  orange  flowers,  and  to  one  with  gray  eyes  who 
was  standing  by  her  side. 

"What's  your  little  game,  Cap'n?"  asked  Red 
River,  when  he  was  joined  by  Moonlight. 

"My  game  is  this.  Now  observe:  the  fire  in  the 
house  will  die  out  and  leave  it  dark.  We  shall  build 

303 


THE    THROWBACK 

one  in  the  camp  house,  and  have  it  attractively  burn 
ing  when  Pedro  of  the  Knife  and  his  Indians  arrive. 
They  will  count  on  a  surprise.  I  shall  leave  the  great 
gate  open  as  it  usually  is,  and  the  camp-house  door 
ajar  to  show  the  flickering  light  of  the  fire.  We'll 
let  them  creep  up  without  interference,  and  enter  the 
corral.  The  camp  house  will  draw  them  like  a  mag 
net;  they  will,  on  seeing  the  fire,  think  to  find  us 
there.  That  should  take  them  all  on  tiptoe  across 
the  corral.  When  they  are  crowded  about  the  camp 
house,  some  inside,  others  at  the  door,  will  be  our 
time.  Have  your  rifle,  your  six-shooters  and  your 
knife.  With  twenty-six  shots,  and  our  bowies  to  fall 
back  upon,  we  shall  show  ourselves  as  both  slow  and 
clumsy,  if  many  escape." 

"Good!"  ejaculated  the  pleased  Red  River,  in  high 
indorsement  of  Moonlight's  sentiments  and  intentions. 
Then  to  himself :  "He  may  be  timid  of  that  little  girl, 
but,  touchin'  Kiowas  an'  similar  varmints,  them  ap 
prehensions  has  in  no  wise  knocked  his  horns  off. " 

Moonlight  stationed  Red  River  under  the  lee  of  the 
north  wall.  His  instructions  were,  when  the  enemy 
had  come  well  within  the  corral,  to  close  and  lock  the 
gate  behind  them,  against  their  getting  out.  Moon 
light  would  take  position  in  the  deep  shadows  near 
the  spring. 

"When  them  Kiowas  is  hoverin'  about  the  camp- 
house  door,"  said  Red  River,  repeating  his  instruc 
tions,  "I'm  to  slam-to  the  gate.  •  Then  I'm  to  wheel, 
an'  go  to  shootin'  into  the  flock  permiscus. " 

"Also,  you  are  not  to  waste  a  cartridge." 

It  was  toward  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  day 
break  a  round  four  hours  away.  A  silence  like  the 

304 


IRONJACKET  PAYS  A  VISIT 

silence  of  death  lay  on  the  Dove's  Nest.  The  moon 
was  just  showing  above  the  eastern  skyline,  and  served 
to  intensify  the  darkness  which  prevailed  within  the 
corral.  Suddenly  a  slight  rasping  sound  was  heard, 
and  the  next  moment  a  tall  Indian  bounded  over  the 
wall  and  dropped  to  the  ground  like  a  cat.  Before 
he  could  gather  himself  together,  two  cable-like  arms 
were  thrown  about  him,  and  with  a  crunching  hug 
that  all  but  cracked  his  bones,  he  was  torn  from  his 
feet  and  hurled  to  the  ground  with  a  crash. 

"Waugh!"  he  cried,  gurgling  and  choking.    "Does 
my  son  not  know  his  father,  Ironjacket?" 


305 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE  BATTLE  AT  THE  DOVE'S  NEST 

IRONJACKET,  on  being  released,  arose  to  his  feet,  and 
began  rubbing  his  arms  and  ribs  in  a  manner  of  pro 
found  thought  and  circumspection.  It  was  as  though 
he  were  a  horse,  and  he  about  to  fix  a  value.  His 
self-investigation  over,  he  turned  to  Moonlight. 

"My  son  hugs  like  a  bear!  Yes,  his  arms  are  the 
arms  of  a  grizzly!" 

"  I  did  not  know  my  father.  Also,  my  father  spoke 
just  in  time." 

As  Moonlight  said  this,  he  slipped  his  nine-inch 
bowie  back  into  its  sheath  with  a  click. 

"  Yes;  Iron  jacket  came  near  joining  Sun  Boy,"  re 
sponded  the  Kiowa  placidly.  "Now,"  he  continued, 
dismissing  his  reception  as  an  incident  ended  with  and 
done,  "I  shall  tell  my  son  why  I  am  here.  It  is  be 
cause  I  gave  a  promise  when  my  medicine  came  back 
to  be  ever  near  him  when  blows  were  struck." 

Ironjacket  told  how  he  had  heard  of  the  work  of 
Pedro  of  the  Knife  among  the  Kiowas. 

"I  was  with  another  band,"  he  said,  "but  my  ear 
was  to  the  ground.  I  am  not  sorry;  for  these  are  bad 
Kiowas,  whom  it  is  good  to  kill." 

Ironjacket  related  how  he  had  followed  in  the  wake 
of  Pedro  of  the  Knife  and  his  cohorts.  Also,  he  said 

306 


BATTLE  AT  THE  DOVE'S  NEST 

that  at  sun-down  they  had  moved  their  camp  to 
within  a  mile  of  the  Dove's  Nest. 

"They  want  to  be  near  my  son  when  the  time  comes 
to  strike,"  he  explained. 

"Did  my  father  count  them?" 

"There  were  so  many,"  returned  Iron  jacket,  open 
ing  and  closing  his  ten  fingers  three  times,  after  the 
fashion  of  aboriginal  mathematicians. 

"Thirty!" 

"  But  now  there  are  two  less.  Black  Antelope  and 
Dull  Lance  were  slain  by  my  son  at  the  Red  Deer 
Ridge." 

"That  is  true,"  assented  Moonlight,  who  under 
stood  in  the  Indians  named  those  two  from  whom  he 
had  rescued  Ethel.  "They  made  war  on  a  girl,  as 
Sun  Boy  did." 

"My  son  always  defends  the  squaws,"  observed 
Ironjacket  admiringly.  "  It  is  a  good  sign. " 

Moonlight  told  how  he  had  already  received  word 
of  the  designs  of  Pedro  of  the  Knife,  and  what  plans 
he,  with  Red  River,  had  laid  to  meet  them.  Iron- 
jacket  was  so  complacent  as  to  approve  the  plans.  He 
believed  with  Moonlight  as  to  the  hour  of  attack. 

"  They  should  come  at  daybreak, "  said  he.  "  They 
think  to  surprise  my  son  in  his  blankets.  I  lay  in 
their  camp  last  night  when  it  was  dark,  and  heard  this. 
But  they  will  be  fooled,  for  my  son  is  wide  awake  like 
a  lynx.  When  we  shall  have  killed  as  many  as  we 
can,  and  driven  off  the  rest,  I  have  a  gift  for  my  son. " 

Moonlight  paid  no  heed  to  the  mention  of  a  gift, 
although  later  he  was  led  to  remember  it. 

The  talk  between  Moonlight  and  Ironjacket  had 
been  conducted  in  whispers.  Red  River,  who  had 

307 


THE    THROWBACK 

come  across  from  his  concealment,  took  no  part  in  it. 
Now,  when  an  understanding  had  been  reached,  he 
returned  to  his  post,  and  the  silent  waiting  was  re 
sumed. 

The  hours  wore  slowly  on.  Pencils  of  bluish-gray 
began  to  shoot  upward  in  the  east,  and  the  air  became 
heavy  with  the  smell  of  morning.  Red  River  was 
lying  in  the  shadow  of  the  'dobe  fence,  to  the  left  of 
the  great  gateway,  which  stood  open  temptingly. 
Through  a  spy-hole  between  two  'dobe  bricks,  he 
could  see  the  expanse  of  moonlighted  plain  to  the 
north.  Moonlight,  on  his  side,  by  a  similar  device, 
could  also  keep  watch.  It  was  on  Red  River's  front, 
however,  that  the  enemy  were  expected. 

Suddenly  Red  River  lighted  a  match,  holding  it 
close  to  the  ground  where  it  could  not  be  seen  from 
the  outside.  It  burned  for  a  moment,  and  then  was 
extinguished.  Moonlight  understood;  it  was  the  sig 
nal  arranged  between  Red  River  and  himself,  and  it 
meant  that  the  foe  were  in  sight.  A  moment  later  a 
shadowy  crouching  form,  on  all  fours  like  a  wolf, 
showed  in  the  open  gateway,  and  paused  as  though 
surveying  the  scene  inside.  Presently  the  dim  form 
disappeared. 

Moonlight  cast  a  glance  at  the  camp  house.  The 
blaze  which  had  been  started  in  the  fireplace  by  him 
self  and  Red  River  for  strategic  purposes  was  visible 
in  intermittent  flickerings  through  the  partially  closed 
door.  The  main  building,  in  which  reposed  the  sleep 
ing  Ethel,  with  her  happy  visions  of  orange  flowers 
and  wedding  marches,  had  become  utterly  dark. 
Moonlight  could  not  refrain  from  creeping  along  in  the 
shadow,  and  softly  trying  the  door.  It  was  securely 

308 


BATTLE  AT  THE  DOVE'S  NEST 

barred,  as  he  had  directed.  Relieved  on  that  head, 
he  returned  noiselessly  to  Ironjacket. 

Ten  minutes  passed;  evidently  that  scout  was 
making  his  report  of  Dove's  Nest  conditions  to  Pedro 
of  the  Knife.  Abruptly,  a  half  dozen  ghostly  figures 
appeared  in  the  gateway,  while  others  crowded  at 
their  backs.  One  and  all  they  moved  with  the  wool- 
foot  stillness  of  cats;  as  many  specters  would  not 
have  been  more  nearly  soundless. 

There  was  a  momentary  pause.  Then,  like  shad 
ows  they  passed  into  the  corral,  and  crossed  to  the 
camp  house.  Softly  a  foremost  one  pushed  open  the 
door;  with  that,  a  silent  half  dozen  seemed  to  melt 
away  into  the  dark  interior.  The  moment  for  which 
Moonlight  had  planned  and  waited  was  at  hand. 

It  was  the  big  buffalo  gun  that  broke  the  spell. 
With  the  flash  and  the  crash  of  it  a  Kiowa  went  down. 
As  he  dropped  with  a  shriek,  Red  River's  rifle  spoke 
from  across  the  corral,  and  a  second  savage  fell  a-top 
the  first.  Then  Red  River  slammed  to  the  big  gate, 
and  the  splitting  voices  of  the  six-shooters  took  up 
the  music  of  that  death  dance. 

Not  the  least  disconcerting  element,  to  the  invad 
ing  Kiowas,  was  the  ringing  yell  wherewith  Ironjacket 
proclaimed  his  presence,  and  began  his  fierce  partici 
pation  in  the  bloody  work.  The  followers  of  Pedro 
of  the  Knife  had  not  counted  on  that  yell.  They  had 
been  told  only  of  two  white  men,  who  were  to  be  seized 
in  their  blankets.  To  be  stormed  at  by  unexpected 
buffalo  guns,  and  then  raked  and  re-raked  by  six- 
shooters  from  two  directions  at  once,  had  been  dis 
couraging.  When,  however,  as  capping  that  sleet  of 
low-flying  lead,  the  hoarse  war-shouts  of  Ironjacket 

309 


THE    THROWBACK 

were  heard,  fear  claimed  their  hearts,  and  a  stampede 
set  in. 

As  one  man,  those  Kiowas  who  could  broke  back 
for  the  gateway.  To  their  dismay  it  had  been  closed. 
The  movement,  none  the  less,  brought  their  whole 
force  like  an  avalanche  upon  Red  River,  who — his 
pistols  being  now  empty — met  the  shock  with  his 
knife.  Not  that  he  was  to  be  left  to  fight  the  red  mob 
alone;  Moonlight  and  Iron  jacket  were  there  as  soon 
almost  as  the  Kiowas.  It  was  a  charge  of  two :  Moon 
light  with  his  bowie,  Ironjacket  flourishing  a  war 
axe,  which  glanced  and  shimmered  in  the  light  of 
the  breaking  day  most  vengefully. 

Moonlight  and  Ironjacket  were  separated  by  a 
dozen  feet,  when  they  struck  the  struggling  mass  of 
savages  about  the  gate.  The  former's  purpose  was 
to  reach  the  stubborn  Red  River.  The  lives  of  all  the 
Kiowas  on  the  Rabbit  Ear  would  not  pay  the  debt  if 
he  were  slain! 

Grasping  the  nearest  savage  by  the  shoulder,  Moon 
light  bore  him  over  backward  with  enormous  strength, 
and  drove  his  knife  into  his  side  to  the  steel  guard. 
Pushing  his  victim  off  the  dripping  blade,  he  fairly 
cut  and  killed  his  way  to  Red  River,  already  down 
beneath  a  heap  of  yelling,  struggling  Kiowas.  Right 
and  left  Moonlight  stabbed  and  slashed.  Only  one 
owned  the  hardihood  to  offer  battle;  and  he  was 
Pedro  of  the  Knife.  His  knife  clashed  for  one  mo 
ment  on  that  of  Moonlight's,  when  by  a  fencing  trick, 
which  the  latter's  measureless  strength  of  wrist  made 
possible,  the  blade  of  Pedro  of  the  Knife  was  swept 
from  his  hand.  Almost  with  the  same  motion  Moon 
light  sheathed  his  own  knife  in  the  Mexican's  heart. 

310 


BATTLE  AT  THE  DOVE'S  NEST 

" Pedro  of  the  Ear,"  cried  Moonlight,  "I  owed  you 
that!" 

As  he  stepped  across  the  writhing  form,  he  became 
aware  of  some  one  at  his  elbow.  He  wheeled  like  a 
flash  with  ready  blade;  then  he  staggered  back  in 
astonishment.  That  one  at  his  elbow  was  Ethel. 
Eyes  bright,  bosom  heaving,  she  stood  like  one  in  a 
trance.  One  would  have  said  that  the  look  of  Moon 
light  fascinated  her.  There  was  reason  that  it  should. 
Coming  upon  him  as  she  did  in  a  climax  of  battle,  his 
face  read  like  a  page  torn  from  some  book  of  doom. 
The  expression  froze  while  it  drew  her  to  him. 

"You  here!"  cried  Moonlight. 

The  next  moment  he  whipped  her  up  and  bore  her 
inside. 

"I  watched  from  the  window,"  she  panted,  "until 
I  felt  that  I  must  go  to  you!  It  was  awful;  and  yet 
it  was  grand!" 

Moonlight  gazed  upon  her  with  a  sharp  narrowness. 
Even  in  the  darkness  of  the  room,  he  saw  with  a  glow 
that  she  was  neither  shaken  nor  hysterical.  Exalted, 
and  carried  beyond  herself  by  the  sight  and  the  sound 
of  war,  she  had  come  forth  to  be  near  him;  and  yet, 
in  that  whirl  of  those  emotions  which  tossed  her, 
terror  possessed  no  place.  Rather  it  was  a  blind,  un 
thinking  worship  of  her  hero.  Live  or  die,  she  must 
be  by  his  side!  Now  she  stood  with  parted  lips  and 
burning  eyes,  breathing  adoration.  She  had  slipped 
off  her  civilization  as  though  it  were  a  garment,  and 
was  as  primitively  savage  as  himself. 

His  eyes  met  hers,  and  their  souls  surveyed  each 
other.  The  war  raged  outside;  they  minded  it  not. 
Without  word,  and  as  one  who  but  claims  his  right, 

311 


THE    THROWBACK 

he  drew  her  close  to  his  bosom  and  kissed  her  lips. 
There  was  no  struggle,  no  remonstrance;  she  lay  in 
his  arms  as  passively  as  any  netted  bird.  He  kissed 
her  again  and  again;  and  those  kisses  were  as  bonds 
between  them,  holding  each  to  each  till  death. 

It  was  Ironjacket  who  at  last  shattered  this  pretty 
picture.  Tall  and  somber,  he  strode  suddenly  in  at 
the  open  doorway.  Naked  to  the  waist,  daubed  with 
his  war  colors  of  black  and  red,  tall  feathers  waving 
upward  from  his  scalplock,  hatchet  running  blood,  the 
fierce  Kiowa  made  a  figure  of  fear.  And  yet  Ethel 
looked  upon  him  steadily. 

"And  wherefore  no?"  said  her  warmly  beating 
heart.  "Is  he  not  here?" 

"Waugh!"  said  Ironjacket,  composedly.  "I  did 
not  know  my  son  had  a  wife."  Then,  pointing  with 
his  sanguinary  war  axe  toward  the  scene  of  recent 
strife:  "They  are  gone! — all  save  those  who  are  dead. 
Yes,  the  others  so  feared  my  son  that  they  became 
as  deer.  There  was  no  gate,  but  they  jumped  like 
mule-eared  deer.  Like  water  down  hill  they  ran 
away!  But  so  many" — here,  with  the  fingers  of  his 
disengaged  hand,  Ironjacket  counted  off  seventeen — 
"did  not  run.  No,  they  were  too  dead." 

Moonlight  stood  with  one  arm  about  Ethel,  as  Iron- 
jacket  made  his  report.  Submerged  hi  that  new  sen 
sation  of  victorious  love,  he  hardly  heard  this  story 
of  a  victory  of  another  sort. 

It  was  the  thought  of  Red  River  that  restored  him 
to  his  old-time  self.  He  took  Ethel's  hands  in  his, 
and  kissed  first  one  and  then  the  other. 

"Dear  one,"  he  said,  "stay  here!" 

Moonlight  brushed  by  Ironjacket,  while  Ethel  sank 
312 


BATTLE  AT  THE  DOVE'S  NEST 

upon  the  couch  of  bear  skins,  flushed,  beautiful,  all 
else  forgotten  and  swallowed  up  in  a  fathomless 
happiness  that  was  hers. 

Ironjacket  followed  Moonlight. 

"Is  it  my  son's  friend?"  he  called  after  him.  "Is 
it  the  Red  River  one?  I  pulled  him  from  beneath  the 
Kiowas;  and,  although  he  stood  straight  and  strong 
like  a  pine  tree  in  his  moccasins,  he  had  been  hurt  by 
a  knife." 

Moonlight  found  Red  River  leaning  against  the 
corral  gate.  His  senses  were  in  that  daze  of  battle 
— a  sort  of  fog  of  fighting — which  seizes  on  some  na 
tures  when  the  war  is  hand  to  hand  and  long  drawn 
out.  It  is  a  fashion  of  self-hypnotism,  and  comes  of 
a  too  much  concentration  of  courage.  Those  who 
have  been  upon  a  battle  field  when  the  fight  was  at  its 
height  have  seen  it! — a  drunkenness  of  the  heart,  it 
is  brought  about  by  quaffing  too  deeply  the  cup  of 
one's  own  valor. 

As  Moonlight  hurried  across,  Red  River  bent  upon 
him  a  blurred,  unseeing  eye.  Then  he  stretched  out 
his  hand,  as  if  to  invoke  encomium  upon  the  stark 
work  that  had  been  done. 

"Cap'n,"  he  murmured,  in  thick,  exultant  tones, 
"we're  shore  what  I  call  dandies  at  our  business!" 

Having  paid  himself  and  the  others  this  tribute, 
the  doughty  Red  River  sank  to  the  ground. 

Moonlight  bent  over  him;  a  moment's  search  served 
to  show  that  he  had  received  a  serious  though  not 
fatal  knife  thrust  in  the  side.  Moonlight  carried  the 
fainting  Red  River  into  the  camp  house,  and  laid  him 
on  a  piled-up  blanket  bed.  Ironjacket,  who  like  all 
Indians,  was  almost  as  much  surgeon  as  warrior,  with 

313 


THE    THROWBACK 

cold  water  and  bandages  proceeded  to  dress  the 
wound.  At  the  feel  of  the  cold  water  Red  River 
opened  his  eyes;  a  word  or  two  showed  him  weak 
from  loss  of  blood,  but  with  wits  restored. 

Leaving  him  to  the  care  of  Ironjacket,  Moonlight 
went  back  to  Ethel. 

"Ethel,"  said  he.  Then,  pausing,  he  faltered,  "I 
may  call  you  Ethel,  may  I  not?"  Her  look  gave 
assent,  and  her  glowing  cheek  confirmed  it.  "  Ethel, " 
he  resumed,  and  now  he  spoke  with  the  ring  of  con 
fidence,  while  his  tones  took  on  that  color  of  blended 
love,  ownership  and  command  so  dear  to  a  woman's 
heart  when  coming  from  him  she  loves,  "you  must 
promise!  You  are  not  to  so  much  as  look  into  the 
corral,  until  I  say  you  may.  No,  you  shall  not  be 
captive  to  these  horrors  long;  and  meanwhile  here  is 
an  outside  window  from  which  you  may  safely  review 
the  world." 

Moonlight  spoke  with  cheerful  composure.  He  felt 
it  incumbent  upon  his  manhood  to  protect  in  every 
way  the  sensibilities  of  this  lady  of  his  heart.  It 
pleased  his  vanity  and  puffed  him  up  a  trifle  that 
Ethel  should  so  readily  acquiesce.  At  this  he  could 
not  refrain  from  strutting  once  or  twice  across  the 
room,  in  a  way  which  brought  back  that  almost  for 
gotten  baile — how  long  ago  it  seemed! — at  the  Cross-8. 
Only  now  it  pleased  and  did  not  vex  her. 

Of  a  sudden  a  new  thought  came  to  him.  He 
groped  in  the  inner  pocket  of  his  coat  and  brought 
forth  the  photograph  which  Mr.  Hanrahan's  kindness 
had  furnished.  It  was  a  brilliant  idea,  he  argued;  for 
it  would  occupy  Ethel,  to  the  exclusion  of  the  grew- 
some  panorama  just  beyond  the  door. 

314 


BATTLE  AT  THE  DOVE'S  NEST 

"See!"  he  said,  extending  the  photograph,  "here  is 
a  puzzle  that  baffles  me;  and  yet  you  may  solve  it." 

Ethel  took  the  picture  wonderingly. 

"Do  you  recognize  it?"  he  asked. 

"Recognize  it?"  she  repeated.  "Why,  it  is  from 
Aunt  Tilda's  book  of  photographs!  It  is  the  picture 
of  her  nephew  Alan  Gordon." 

"And  of  no  one  else?" 

The  voice  was  so  strange  that  it  drew  her  eyes  to 
his  face.  In  an  instant  the  truth  overwhelmed  her. 
She  came  a  step  closer,  her  gaze  crossing  his.  Then 
in  a  whisper  of  amazement,  with  a  note  of  gladness 
running  through,  she  cried: 

"You — you  are  Alan  Gordon!" 

There  followed  a  cataract  of  explanation.  Before 
it  ceased,  Moonlight  and  Ethel  had  all  things  made 
clear  to  them. 

It  was  he  who  said  at  the  finish : 

"And,  dear  one,  whatever  comes,  your  Aunt  Tilda 
— for  as  yet  I  can  hardly  call  her  mine — must  not 
know  of  this  plot  of  Robert's.  Remember,  she  must 
never  know." 

Ethel  nodded  assent. 

"She  loves  Robert,"  she  said,  "as  though  he  were 
her  own.  She  will  love  you,  too;  but  it  would  break 
her  heart  to  hear  the  truth  of  Robert." 

Ethel  went  to  the  window  from  which  the  prospect 
was  innocent,  to  cool  her  hot  cheeks  in  the  fresh 
breeze.  Instantly  she  uttered  an  exclamation  of  joy. 
"Jet!"  she  cried.  "Here  comes  my  own  Jet!  And 
two  men  are  with  him!  Yes" — her  excitement 
mounting — "and  one  is  dear,  good  Professor  Dore- 
mus!" 

315 


THE    THROWBACK 

True  enough!  As  Ethel  had  proclaimed,  the  Pro 
fessor  and  Jeff,  having  with  them  the  abandoned 
Jet,  picked  up  by  the  way,  rode  in  to  the  Dove's 
Nest. 

At  sight  of  the  hideous  tokens  of  strife  that,  twisted 
and  pang-distorted,  marred  the  scene,  the  Professor 
looked  grave.  The  case-hardened  Jeff  could  not  re 
press  his  applause. 

"  Looks  like  you'd  been  havin'  stirrin'  times,  Cap'n!" 
cried  he,  as  Moonlight  came  up. 

"I  am  the  more  glad  to  see  you,  Uncle  Jeff,"  re 
turned  Moonlight  dryly,  "since  the  Dove's  Nest 
would  be  the  better  for  a  little  house-cleaning.  I  feel 
sure  that,  now  you  are  here,  you  can  be  relied  upon 
to  attend  to  it." 

"'Uncle  Jeff/"  repeated  that  worthy,  disgustedly. 
"As  I  says,  whenever  you  hails  me  as  'Uncle  Jeff/  it's 
preeliminary  to  something  disagreeable." 

Moonlight  led  the  Professor  inside  to  Ethel.  Then 
he  said  he  would  go  and  see  to  Red  River,  and  so  left 
the  two  alone. 

He  returned  after  half  an  hour,  to  find  the  good 
Professor  among  his  warmest  partisans. 

"And  you  are  the  son  of  Alan  Gordon!"  cried  the 
old  man,  taking  his  hand.  "Well!  well!  It  illus 
trates  the  strangeness  of  truth!"  Moonlight's  hand 
closed  on  the  Professor's  slim  fingers  like  a  vise;  but 
that  scientist,  in  the  tumult  of  his  feelings,  never 
flinched.  "And  you  are  the  young  Alan  Gordon!" 
he  went  on.  "Believe  me,  it  rejoices  my  old  heart. 
It  doubly  rejoices  me;  for  Ethel  has  done  me  the  honor 
to  tell  me  all. " 

The  good  Professor  went  outside,  and  found  Jeff 
316 


BATTLE  AT  THE  DOVE'S  NEST 

coolly  tossing  the  dead  Kiowas  into  the  big  ranch 
wagon,  which  on  other  days  Red  River  devoted  to 
buffalo  hides.  The  indurated  Jeff  had  just  thrown 
in  all  that  was  mortal  of  Pedro  of  the  Knife,  and  ap 
peared  to  enjoy  a  cocky  sense  of  satisfaction  hi  so 
doing. 

"As  big  an  assassin,  Professor,"  he  vouchsafed, 
referring  to  Pedro  of  the  Knife,  "as  ever  cocks  a  gun!" 
Then  he  added  with  a  deep  sigh,  "You  an'  me  missed 
a  heap  in  not  bein'  yere." 

"Are  you  going  to  bury  them,  friend  Jeff?"  asked 
the  Professor. 

"Which  I'm  goin'  to  kyart  'em  over  beyond  that 
swell  a  mile  away,  an'  then  dump  'em  out  a  whole  lot. 
J  shall  leave  buryin'  'em  to  the  Panhandle  firm  of 
'Raven  &  Coyote,  Undertakers  &  Fooneral  Directors.' 
Thar,"  he  concluded,  pointing  to  a  huge  raven  sailing 
overhead,  as  though  already  scenting  a  prey — "thar's 
the  head  of  the  firm  right  now." 

"Ah,  I  see,"  remarked  the  Professor,  surveying  the 
black  repulsive  bird,  "a  raven!  Scientifically,  of  the 
genus  corvus.  A  striking  specimen,  too,  I  should  say," 
he  concluded,  as  he  watched  the  huge  fowl  slant  its 
wings  to  the  wind. 

Ironjacket  came  up,  and  said  that  now  he  had 
made  the  wounded  Red  River  easy,  he  would  bring 
in  the  gift  which  he  designed  for  his  son. 

"Where  is  it?"  asked  Moonlight,  who,  in  the  hurry 
of  the  morning's  many  events,  had  forgotten  the 
promised  benevolence. 

"I  shall  be  gone  until  the  sun  is  there,"  responded 
Ironjacket,  pointing  to  what  should  mean  the  hour 
of  three,  if  the  sky  were  a  clock  and  the  sun  its  hour 

317 


THE    THROWBACK 

hand.    "Southwind  and  the  Firelight  are  watching 
over  my  gift,  to  see  that  it  does  not  run  away." 

Ironjacket  returned  sharp  to  the  hour.  Behind 
him,  on  their  ponies,  rode  the  meek  Southwind  and 
the  lovely  Firelight.  The  Professor  at  sight  of  them 
radiated  a  welcome. 

Something  like  a  long  sack  lay  across  the  pony  of 
Ironjacket  in  front  of  the  rider.  Before  the  latter 
dismounted,  he  tumbled  this  object  off  with  as  little 
ceremony  as  though  it  were  a  pack  of  beaver  pelts. 

"Waugh!"  he  observed,  with  an  urbane  gesture; 
"there  is  the  gift  I  bring  my  son." 

"The  gift"  groaned  and  opened  its  eyes,  as  it  lay 
bound  and  helpless  on  the  grass.  A  closer  look 
showed  nothing  other  than  Don  Anton  Baca  him 
self. 

"He  talked  with  Pedro  of  the  Knife  last  night," 
explained  Ironjacket,  "as  I  listened.  He  said  that 
my  son  was  to  be  burned  at  the  stake.  But  he  was 
too  big  a  coward  to  come  for  my  son  with  the  others, 
so  he  left  Pedro  of  the  Knife  and  went  away  to  hide. 
I  followed,  and  caught  and  tied  him.  Then  I  carried 
him  to  Southwind,  that  she  might  watch  while  I  came 
to  fight  for  my  son.  The  battle  is  over  and  won ;  now 
my  son  may  burn  this  man  who  would  have  burned 
him." 

The  brow  of  Moonlight  grew  dark;  the  old  remorse 
less  savage  in  him  began  to  struggle  to  the  surface. 
He  was  all  for  hanging  Don  Anton  to  the  big  center 
beam  at  the  gable  end  of  the  camp  house. 

Ethel  gently  interposed. 

"For  the  sake  of  the  Dona  Inez, "  she  pleaded,  "who 
sent  you  warning." 

318 


BATTLE  AT  THE  DOVE'S  NEST 

"You  need  not  go  further  than  your  own  wish, 
little  sweetheart,"  said  Moonlight. 

Don  Anton  was  given  a  pony  and  a  warning.  He 
was  advised  to  put  himself  back  on  the  Concha  with 
out  delay. 

Ironjacket  looked  discouraged  at  this  untoward 
softening  on  the  part  of  Moonlight.  When  Don  An 
ton,  sore  and  battered,  had  vanished  with  the  pony 
granted  him,  he  drew  Moonlight  aside. 

"My  son,"  said  he  solemnly,  with  the  reproachful 
tail  of  his  eye  on  Ethel,  "remember!  The  breath  of 
a  squaw  will  dull  the  warrior's  knife." 

When  Jeff  drove  in  from  what  he  called  the  "ob 
sequies,  "  he  brought  with  him  a  bandit-seeming  Mex 
ican  who  he  said  belonged  at  the  Cross-8. 

"Which  I  nacherally  thought,"  explained  Jeff,  the 
sagacious,  "that  most  likely,  Professor,  you'd  want 
to  send  word  how  the  little  Ethel  girl  is  safe,  that- 
away.  This  yere  greaser  is  one  of  the  Red  Bull's  rid 
ers,  an'  he's  on  his  way  in  to  the  home  ranch  at  this 
writin'.  What's  easier  than  sendin'  a  message  by 
him?" 

The  thought  was  timely.  The  good  Professor 
scribbled  one  line,  "Ethel  is  safe!"  and,  signing  it 
"Your  devoted  P.  D.,"  dispatched  it  to  Aunt  Tilda. 

"Nor  can  I  thank  you  too  heartily,  friend  Jeff, "  said 
he,  when  the  Mexican  had  gone  his  northward  way. 
"It  will  cut  short  a  flood  of  torturing  anxieties." 

That  night  was  the  happiest  ever  seen  at  the  Dove's 
Nest.  With  the  thousand  and  one  matters,  romantic 
and  commonplace,  to  be  threshed  out  among  them, 
Ethel,  the  Professor  and  Moonlight  were  in  animated 
converse  until  far  into  the  hours. 

319 


THE    THROWBACK 

Jeff  would  have  retired  early,  but  the  sight  of  Fire 
light,  in  the  role  of  nurse  to  the  wounded  Red  River, 
operated  to  disturb  him.  He  called  Moonlight  into 
the  corral  for  consultation. 

"For,  d'ye  see,  Cap'n,"  he  explained,  "Red  River, 
bein'  slashed  up  that-away,  an'  plumb  weak,  is  likely 
to  turn  sentimental;  an'  once  he  gets  sentimental, 
thar's  no  figgerin'  on  what  eediocy  he'll  commit. 
Which,  unless  we  cuts  in  between  him  an'  this  yere 
little  squaw,  it  wouldn't  amaze  me  none  if  the  next 
thing  we  hears  he's  old  Ironjacket's  son-in-law." 

Moonlight  declined  to  interfere. 

"All  right,  Cap'n,"  returned  Jeff,  turning  both 
high  and  virtuous,  "at  least  I've  done  my  dooty.  I 
yereby  washes  my  hands  of  the  business,  an'  shall 
now  roll  in  for  a  much-needed  snooze." 


320 


CHAPTER  XXIV 
LOVE  GREW  AND  TREASURE  CAME 

AT  the  suggestion  of  Ethel,  who  was  thinking  on  Aunt 
Tilda  and  her  anxieties,  an  early  morning  start  was 
made  for  the  Cross-8.  Ironjacket  said  that  he  would 
remain  and  keep  house  at  the  Dove's  Nest.  He  ex 
plained  that,  after  so  fatiguing  a  battle,  he  must  smoke 
many  days  to  recover  himself.  Meanwhile,  Red  River 
would  be  watched  over  by  the  dusky  Firelight.  The 
arrangement  was  in  a  high  degree  satisfactory  to  all 
involved,  not  least  among  whom  was  Red  River,  who 
approved  feebly  but  with  emphasis. 

Jet,  by  a  miracle  of  equine  recuperation,  presented 
four  good  legs  for  the  journey.  This  was  fortunate, 
since  any  other  pony  about  the  Dove's  Nest  would 
have  died  outright,  if  subjected  to  the  awful  ordeal 
of  side  saddle  and  skirts.  The  party  set  out  betimes, 
the  Professor  and  Jeff  riding  ahead  in  scientific  con 
ference,  while  the  lovers  brought  up  the  lagging  rear. 
The  latter  had  eyes  only  for  one  another;  and,  remem 
bering  the  broken  character  of  the  trail,  it  was  just 
as  well  that  Jet  and  President  were  not  so  purblind. 

Jeff  and  the  Professor  had  much  to  feed  the  flame 
of  conversation.  About  four  of  that  very  morning 
a  keen,  dry,  driving  wind  had  started  up  from  the 
exact  quarter  of  the  compass  that  should  best  test 
the  sand-removing  value  of  their  wind-break.  Jeff 
routed  the  Professor  from  beneath  his  blankets  at 

321 


THE    THROWBACK 

the  unearthly  hour  of  five,  to  consider  that  favoring 
gale  and  its  effects.  The  hopeful  pair  had  been  up 
ever  since. 

"An',  Professor,"  observed  Jeff,  "this  yere  breeze, 
which  is  only  a  good,  headlong  sort  of  gale  back 
yere  on  the  Palo  Duro,  will  be  blowin'  a  simoon  on 
the  Canadian;  sech  bein'  the  nacher  of  Panhandle 
weather." 

Jeff  declared  that  from  a  certain  highest  point  in 
the  trail,  ten  miles  north  of  the  Dove's  Nest,  some 
dusty  evidences  of  their  experiment's  success  might 
be  visible. 

"For,"  he  explained,  "from  that  p'int,  Professor, 
we  can  see  plumb  to  the  river.  If  this  wind  is  tossin' 
our  sand-hill  on  its  horns  that-away,  it  looks  like  it 
should  shorely  kick  up  dust  enough  to  be  visible  thar- 
from  to  the  naked  eye." 

So  eager  were  our  engineers,  that  they  lashed  for 
ward  at  a  pace  which  not  only  left  Ethel  and  Moon 
light  behind,  but  rendered  Socrates  quite  breathless. 
Their  haste  was  repaid,  however,  when,  upon  mount 
ing  to  that  tableland  which  threw  open  before  them 
a  partial  view  of  the  far-off  valley  of  the  Canadian, 
their  vision  was  refreshed  by  the  sight  of  a  gigantic 
dust-banner,  which  appeared  to  rise  from  the  ground 
before  them  like  a  huge  smoke.  It  stretched  away 
to  the  east  in  a  dun-colored  cloud,  as  opaque  as  a  wall 
of  rock,  all  across  the  entire  horizon.  If  their  knowl 
edge  had  not  furnished  the  explanation,  our  scientific 
ones  might  have  feared  that  a  volcano  had  suddenly 
set  up  business  in  the  Panhandle. 

As  they  gazed,  they  all  but  tore  each  other  from  the 
saddle  in  a  whirlwind  of  mutual  congratulation. 

322 


LOVE  GREW,  TREASURE  CAME 

" Which  the  trick  is  ours,  Professor/7  cried  the 
ebullient  Jeff,  "or  I'm  no  jedge  of  eucher!" 

The  Professor,  in  equal  ecstasy,  looked  with  rapt 
eyes  upon  that  snuff-hued  banner  which  the  winds 
were  flinging  aloft. 

"A  pillar  of  fire  by  night,"  he  murmured  rather 
irrelevantly — "a  pillar  of  fire  by  night  and  a  cloud 
by  day!  Friend  Jeff,  I  verily  believe  that  our  de 
ductions  are  about  to  be  justified." 

The  Professor  and  Jeff  could  talk  of  naught  save  their 
dust-cloud.  In  their  zeal  to  witness  results,  they  con 
tinued  to  drive  forward  with  all  possible  speed.  They 
had  told  nothing  of  their  canvas  arrangements  to 
Moonlight ;  and  since  he  owned  thoughts  only  for  the 
beautiful  Ethel,  it  would  have  been  a  waste  of  time 
and  frankness  if  they  had.  Concerning  that  dust- 
banner,  festooned  against  the  northern  sky  line,  they 
had  their  hopes  and  their  fears  altogether  to  them 
selves. 

"And  yet,  friend  Jeff,"  observed  the  Professor 
ruefully,  as  a  thought  of  duty  seized  him,  "I  will  not 
be  able  to  go  with  you  this  evening.  I  must  first 
restore  Ethel  to  the  arms  of  her  aunt.  I  fear  I  shall 
not  be  free  to  join  you  at  the  theater  of  our  experi 
ment  until  to-morrow." 

The  Professor  spoke  sadly,  for  the  heat  of  scientific 
interest  was  high  in  his  veins. 

"Never  mind,  Professor,"  observed  Jeff  generously, 
"we  won't  move  a  wheel  until  you  show  up." 

Much  that  was  sweet  and  true  and  tender  did  Ethel 
and  Moonlight  say  to  one  another,  during  the  long 
ride  to  the  Cross-8.  President  and  Jet  behaved  like 
lifelong  friends;  and  this  concession  permitted  the 

323 


THE    THROWBACK 

lovers  to  ride  so  close  to  each  other  as  to  take  hold 
of  hands — an  inestimable  privilege  under  the  circum 
stances.  They  made  no  plans  beyond  that  one  matter 
already  resolved  upon,  that  no  word  of  Robert's  per 
fidy  should  be  given  to  either  Aunt  Tilda  or  the  Pro 
fessor. 

"It  shall  be  our  secret,  sweetheart,"  covenanted 
Moonlight — "  ours  and  his. " 

"It  is  all  so  strange, "  said  Ethel;  "my  finding  you! 
And  yet,  since  I  know  you  to  be  Alan  Gordon,  it  seems 
as  though  I  had  been  with  you  always." 

Ethel  re-told  how,  broken-hearted,  old  Alan  Gor 
don  had  drooped  into  his  grave  when  he  found  that 
his  son  was  gone. 

"How  could  you  remain  away?"  she  exclaimed. 

"I  believed  that  he  hated  me,"  returned  Moonlight 
mournfully.  "My  whole  childhood  had  been  a  battle 
—a  daily  war  with  him.  He  seemed  hard  and  hate 
ful  to  me.  I  believed  him,  too,  when  he  described  me 
as  a  Throwback/  and  declared  that  I  would  be  his 
disgrace,  and  the  disgrace  of  his  house.  That  was 
why  I  left.  And  then  I  tried  only  to  forget  that  there 
was  such  a  name  as  Gordon,  or  such  a  place  as  old 
Somerset." 

Ethel,  unconsciously,  became  Moonlight's  precep 
tress  in  civilization,  and  it  was  marvelous  what  strides 
he  made. 

"And  to  think,"  ran  his  self-condemnations,  "what 
have  been  my  ideals!  I  have  looked  upon  bloodshed 
as  upon  a  virtue,  and  was  flattered  to  be  thought  a 
butcher.  And  my  father  loved  me  after  all!  God! 
how  we  mislead  each  other!  how  we  mislead  our 
selves!" 

324 


LOVE  GREW,  TREASURE  CAME 

Ethel  watched  the  sadness  on  his  brow,  and  the  mel 
ancholy  in  those  eyes  of  gray.  He  caught  her  glance , 
instantly  the  cloud  vanished,  and  love,  like  a  sunrise, 
supplanted  that  gray-eyed  melancholy. 

The  quartette  rode  together  until  within  sight  of 
the  mud  walls  of  the  Cross-8.  Here  Moonlight  and 
Jeff  bore  off  to  the  right  for  the  Monk's  Hill,  while 
Ethel  with  the  Professor  went  forward. 

"To-morrow,  sweetheart,"  whispered  Moonlight. 

As  Moonlight  and  Jeff  rounded  the  toe  of  the  Monk's 
Hill,  the  former,  for  the  earliest  time,  became  aware 
of  that  mighty  dust-banner.  Even  then  he  did  not 
link  it  with  those  engineering  operations  of  the  worthy 
Jeff. 

"What!"  he  cried,  "a  sand  storm?  Queer,  too," 
he  continued.  "  Seems  to  start  all  in  one  place. " 

The  pair  rounded  the  wooded  promontory,  and 
came  upon  the  Professor's  wind-break,  whimpering 
and  cracking  in  the  gale  like  the  sails  of  a  ship.  Moon 
light  was  amazed;  Jeff,  the  voluble,  hastily  but  en 
thusiastically  explained. 

"An'  see  thar!"  cried  Jeff  excitedly;  "I'm  a  Si- 
wash  if  it  ain't  worked!" 

Sure  enough,  the  canvas  wind-break  was  now  an 
isolated  creature — a  thing  by  itself.  As  its  promoter 
had  prophesied,  the  wind,  by  its  guidance,  had 
brought  about  the  disappearance  of  the  sand-hill.  The 
last  of  that  breeze-constructed  elevation  was  still  visi 
ble,  in  the  shape  of  a  single  cone  of  sand,  which  stood 
out  on  the  flat  full  one  hundred  yards  from  the  base 
of  the  Monk's  Hill.  The  winds  still  held  their  dance 
about  it,  like  morrice  players  round  a  maypole,  and 
from  its  snuffy  apex  a  dusty  column  was  constantly 

325 


THE    THROWBACK 

rising  like  smoke.  Clearly,  its  future  was  written ;  the 
last  of  that  sand-hill,  the  tunneling  whereof  had  given 
Jeff  so  much  trouble,  would  be  wiped  out  within  the 
limits  of  another  day. 

The  intervening  stretch  between  the  wind-whipped 
cone  and  the  base  of  the  Monk's  Hill  lay  as  clean  and 
swept  as  a  brickyard  floor.  Not  a  spear  of  vegetation 
showed;  it  was  the  raw  hard-pan,  dead  and  desolate. 
Across  it  meandered  the  ribbon-like  stream  which 
Jeff  had  attempted  in  his  tunneling  to  trace.  Moved 
of  one  thought,  Moonlight  and  Jeff  spurred  for  the 
point  at  the  base  of  the  Monk's  Hill,  from  which  the 
stream  flowed  forth.  As  they  reached  it  one  of  Jeff's 
Mexicans  rushed  up;  he  was  almost  in  tears. 

"By  the  machinations  of  the  devil,"  cried  the 
lachrymose  one,  "our  hill  has  been  made  to  take  its 
flight.  Now  there  can  be  no  more  tunneling,  no 
more  timbering!  All  our  digging  and  our  chopping 
go  for  naught!" 

He  explained  that  for  the  safety  of  the  lull  he  and 
his  comrades  had  prayed  and  told  their  beads  all 
night.  Prayers  were  useless,  however;  the  hill  had 
gone  its  windy  way. 

The  little  stream  had  its  origin  in  a  cave,  as  the 
monk's  note  described.  The  cave  was  choked  of  sand, 
but  that  should  mean  no  more  than  an  hour's  work  for 
Jeff's  shovel  brigade.  Strong  as  was  the  impulse  in 
the  bosoms  of  both  Moonlight  and  Jeff  to  set  to  dig 
ging  at  once,  they  fought  it  down,  and  deferred  oper 
ations  until  the  Professor  should  join  them  on  the 
morrow. 

"  Which  I  told  him  we  would, "  explained  Jeff.  "  Be- 
in'  a  scientist  that-away,  an'  this  yere  canvas  con- 

326 


LOVE  GREW,  TREASURE  CAME 

traption  his  excloosive  idee,  nacherally  he's  plumb 
eager  to  be  present  when  we  makes  the  final  turn." 

With  the  gray  of  dawn  the  Professor  with  Socrates 
joined  Moonlight  and  Jeff.  His  face  was  white  and 
worn. 

"Alan/'  said  he,  addressing  Moonlight  gravely,  "I 
bring  bad  news.  Your  cousin  Robert  is  dead.  It 
was  a  strange  deathbed,"  continued  the  Professor, 
after  a  moment  of  silence.  Sinking  his  voice  mys 
teriously,  he  went  on.  "There  was  that  about  his 
going  which  might  almost  prove  a  power  of  second 
sight  as  the  near  precedent  of  death.  Robert  died 
at  daybreak,  yesterday  morning;  his  Aunt  Tilda  was 
bending  over  him.  Suddenly,  starting  up  he  cried: 

"'What  time  is  it?' 

"  'The  day  is  breaking,'  she  said. 

"'Daybreak!'  he  shrieked,  tossing  his  arms.  'Day 
break!  And  they  are  killing  Cousin  Alan  at  the 
Dove's  Nest!'" 

"Those  were  his  last  words,"  concluded  the  Pro 
fessor,  still  with  lowered,  dubious  voice.  "As  he 
uttered  them  blood  gushed  from  his  mouth,  and  he 
fell  back  dead." 

Jeff,  for  what  seemed  to  him  a  proper  space,  re 
strained  his  impatience  out  of  respect  for  the  Pro 
fessor  and  the  death  message  he  bore.  When  he 
deemed  the  proprieties  protected,  he  suggested  shovels 
and  an  investigation  of  the  spring.  The  good  Pro 
fessor  approved  the  motion. 

"Friend  Jeff,"  he  said,  "I  think,  as  you  do,  that  we 
might  better  complete  our  work  here.  Afterward 
we  will  repair  to  the  Cross-8,  where  the  coming  of  one 
of  us  is  anxiously  awaited.  Yes,"  he  continued,  ad- 

327 


THE    THROWBACK 

dressing  Moonlight,  "  Ethel  and  I  have  told  the  miracle 
of  our  discovery  of  you  to  your  Aunt  Tilda.  She 
could  hardly  train  her  senses  to  believe  the  news.  So 
deep  was  her  joy  that,  even  in  her  hour  of  sorrow, 
our  story  so  took  possession  of  her  she  could  hardly 
think  or  talk  of  aught  but  you." 

Moonlight  made  no  reply;  he  would  not  trust  him 
self  with  any  topic  that  was  to  bring  Robert's  name 
to  his  lips.  He  listened  to  the  Professor,  and  then, 
murmuring  something  that  sounded  like  acquiescence, 
motioned  to  Jeff  to  get  the  Mexicans  to  work. 

There  was  an  hour's  hard  digging  before  the  cave 
was  freed  from  the  choking  sand.  While  the  shovel- 
men  moiled,  the  Professor  cast  about  him  admiring 
and  self-gratulatory  glances.  He  exchanged  whis 
pered  compliments  with  Jeff.  For  there  is  no  victory 
like  a  scientific  victory;  no  Alexander  like  your  Alex 
ander  of  invention  who,  on  the  battlefield  of  some  ex 
periment,  finds  himself  a  conqueror.  Wherefore,  the 
good  Professor,  who  now  laid  bare  to  Moonlight  even 
unto  each  minutest  angle,  that  theory  of  the  canvas 
wind-break  upon  which  he  and  Jeff  had  gone  to  work, 
found  much  to  pleasantly  hold  him,  while  the  Mex 
icans  scattered  the  sand. 

After  the  cave  had  been  cleared,  Moonlight  set  the 
Mexicans  to  digging  out  the  spring  itself.  When  the 
water  in  the  spring  showed  about  three  feet  in  depth, 
he  dismissed  the  Mexicans  and  took  a  spade  himself. 
If  the  dead  Don  Lopez's  treasure  were  found,  he  did 
not  propose  that  it  be  made  part  of  Panhandle  gossip; 
he,  with  the  Professor  and  Jeff,  should  be  the  only 
ones  to  know.  As  promoting  the  end  in  view,  Jeff 
marshaled  the  Mexicans  back  to  camp,  gave  them 

328 


LOVE  GREW,  TREASURE  CAME 

a  gallon  of  rum  to  induce  forgetfulness,  and  bade 
them  regard  the  occasion  as  a  picnic;  a  command 
which,  with  the  help  of  light  hearts  and  the  parapher 
nalia  required  by  a  game  of  monte,  they  obeyed  in 
spirit  and  letter. 

Moonlight  drove  his  spade  straight  downward  into 
what  seemed  the  natural  heart  of  the  spring.  By 
working  it  to  and  fro  he  forced  it  deeper  and  deeper, 
until  not  only  had  the  handle  of  the  spade  disappeared, 
but  his  arm  was  immersed  to  the  elbow. 

Luck  was  with  him;  at  last  the  spade  grated  against 
some  substance  that  gave  forth  a  metallic  sound.  He 
had  expected  to  find  the  flat  stone  written  of  by  the 
monk  Jose,  but  the  water  made  sand  of  that  long 
years  ago.  Thus,  the  spade  went  home  without  pause 
to  that  desirable  Don  Lopez  casket. 

Feeling  his  way  with  the  spade,  Moonlight  suc 
ceeded  in  working  under  the  drowned  treasure,  and 
with  a  steady,  prying  motion  began  slowly  to  loosen  it 
in  its  sandy  resting  place.  At  that  Jeff,  whose  excite 
ment  was  climbing  fast,  plunged  into  the  spring  bodily, 
with  no  more  hesitation  than  would  have  been  mani 
fested  by  a  Newfoundland  dog,  and  going  head  and 
ears  under,  seized  upon  the  casket  with  two  hands 
and  brought  it  dripping  to  the  surface.  Giving  a 
great,  victorious  heave,  he  pitched  it  out  upon  the 
flat,  dry  ground. 

The  steel  outer  box,  being  rust-rotten,  cracked  and 
cliipped  as  it  struck  the  hard  ground.  A  blow  or  two 
with  the  flat  of  the  heavy  spade,  and  it  fell  all  away  in 
pieces,  leaving  a  dullish  yellow  oblong  cube,  some 
what  less  in  size  than  a  common  cigar  box.  This 
yellow  cube,  stained  and  discolored  by  certain  traces 

329 


THE    THROWBACK 

of  mineral  which  the  waters  of  the  spring  contained, 
was  that  inner  golden  casket,  described  by  the  dead 
Jose  as  enclosing  those  Don  Lopez  rubies,  of  which 
Moonlight  had  so  often  dreamed. 

Moonlight  picked  up  the  casket  and  dried  it.  Gold 
though  it  was,  it  possessed  no  great  weight.  In  one 
side  was  bored  a  small  round  hole,  that  might  have 
once  received  a  key.  On  what  should  be  the  top,  was 
a  cross  carved  in  raised  gold.  There  was  no  tracing, 
no  inscription;  except  for  the  discoloration,  the  box, 
a  plain,  pale  yellow,  was  unadorned. 

"Smash  it  open!"  cried  Jeff. 

But  Moonlight  spake  otherwise.  "Not  now,"  said 
he.  "  We  shall  open  it  later. "  Then,  observing  Jeff's 
disappointment,  "you  shall  be  present;  I  promise  you 
that." 

Two  months  have  come  and  gone,  and  our  friends 
are  at  the  Bar-Z.  They  buried  Robert  on  the  crest  of 
the  Monk's  Hill,  at  the  base  of  the  huge  rock  whereon 
the  dying  Jose  carved  his  cross.  Aunt  Tilda  felt 
the  going  of  Robert;  but  if  she  had  lost  one  nephew, 
she  had  found  another,  and  her  grief  was  offset  by  as 
great  a  joy. 

One  bright  spring-like  afternoon  who  should  ride 
up  to  the  Bar-Z  but  the  Red  Bull  and  the  fair  Dona 
Inez.  The  Red  Bull  explained  his  mission.  There 
was  to  be  a  festival  at  the  Cross-8;  the  brave  Don 
Anton  would  wed  the  glowing  Dona  Inez.  The  Red 
Bull  hoped  that  his  neighbors  of  the  Bar-Z  would 
grant  the  ceremony  the  honor  of  their  presence. 

"My  daughter,"  whispered  the  Red  Bull  to  Aunt 
Tilda,  "loves  your  Ethel;  and  besides  I  want  the 

330 


LOVE  GREW,  TREASURE  CAME 

wedding  to  bring  peace  between  Captain  Moonlight 
and  Don  Anton." 

Aunt  Tilda  urged  the  recent  death  of  Robert.  To 
plunge  into  weddings  seemed  to  her  improper.  The 
question  of  friendship  between  her  new-found  nephew 
and  Don  Anton  was  the  less  important,  she  said,  since 
they  were  one  and  all  about  to  quit  the  Panhandle 
and  return  to  old  Somerset.  Besides,  she  was  by  no 
means  sure  of  her  new  nephew's  reception  of  those 
peace  proposals.  Aunt  Tilda  loved  him  with  her 
whole  motherly  heart  as  one  who,  being  lost,  was 
found  again;  but  she  by  no  means  felt  sure  of  his  in 
clinations.  He  still  had  somber  half-savage  moments 
when  he  was  hard  to  understand. 

The  diplomatic  Red  Bull  met  Aunt  Tilda's  objec 
tions  in  detail,  and  confuted  them  like  a  Christian. 
As  to  the  last,  he  gave  it  as  his  belief  that  Moonlight 
would  do  whatever  Ethel  desired. 

"And,  of  course,"  said  the  Red  Bull,  "one  so  good 
and  gentle  will  favor  forgiveness,  forgetfulness  and 
peace." 

The  Dona  Inez  talked  with  Ethel  and  Moonlight. 

"I  have  to  thank  you  for  a  warning,"  observed 
Moonlight.  "I  wonder  sometimes  what  I  did  to  de 
serve  your  interest." 

"Bah!"  returned  the  Dona  Inez,  snapping  her  fin 
gers  like  castanets;  "you  danced  well.  Besides,  I 
didn't  warn  you;  I  warned  your  Ethel." 

"And  Don  Anton?"  asked  Ethel. 

"He  is  at  Chaparita,"  responded  the  Dona  Inez 
lightly,  "coaxing  back  his  vanity,  and  forgetting 
many  things.  However,  I  shall  marry  him;  and  you 

must  be  present." 

331 


THE    THROWBACK 

The  weight  of  public  opinion,  as  represented  by 
Ethel,  the  Professor  and  Jeff,  was  against  Aunt  Tilda. 
As  for  Moonlight,  he  was  mere  clay  in  the  hands  of 
potter  Ethel.  Personally,  with  that  callous  indiffer 
ence  to  feuds  which  is  characteristic  of  the  Southwest, 
he  was  content  to  be  at  peace  with  Don  Anton.  The 
more,  since  he  might  at  any  moment  turn  that  peace 
into  war,  if  it  pleased  him  so  to  do. 

Beyond  all,  however,  the  news  of  that  impending 
Cross-8  wedding  had  put  a  wondrous  notion  into  his 
head.  He  confided  the  brilliant  thought  to  Ethel, 
who  blushed,  tried  to  look  annoyed,  and  failed.  She 
squabbled  a  little  in  opposition,  but  permitted  Moon 
light  to  defeat  her  at  that  squabbling;  which  last, 
being  unique  and  without  example,  showed  that  Ethel 
was  not  in  earnest. 

On  the  back  of  his  victory,  Moonlight  dispatched 
Jeff  with  word  to  Mr.  Hanrahan  and  Merchant  Wright. 
These  good  gentlemen  were  thrown  into  vast  excite 
ment  as  the  result  of  that  word,  and  the  same  night 
sent  a  fleet  messenger  to  Frosty  in  Austin.  The  lat 
ter  personage  closed  his  gambling  den  temporarily, 
and  took  the  trail  of  a  preacher  who  had  been  pointed 
out  as  having  come  west  for  his  health,  and  possess 
ing  no  present  pulpit. 

Following  a  conference  with  the  churchman,  Frosty 
wrote  a  hasty  line  to  Merchant  Wright.  It  was  in 
these  words: 

DEER  BOB : 

I  send  a  sky-pilot  to  you  an'  Ned  by  next  buckboard.  I  told 
him  you  wanted  to  open  a  game  for  him — a  church,  I  mean — at 
the  'Dobe  Walls.  Please  make  my  bluff  good,  as  I  hate  to  lie 
to  a  preacher  for  fear  of  bad  luck.  You  can  fake  him  up  a  pulpit 
in  your  storeroom  or  Ned's  bar;  an'  perhaps  he  can  pound  a  little 
religion  into  Locoed  Charlie.  It  might  do  Charlie  a  heap  of  good; 

332 


LOVE  GREW,  TREASURE  CAME 

who  can  say?  Give  my  regards  to  Old  Tom  Moonlight,  an'  tell 
him  that,  while  I  usually  "copper"  a  weddin',  havin'  Tost  heavily 
at  the  game  myse'f,  I  am  playin'  his  comin'  nuptials  to  win,  for 
the  limit.  Yours  truly,  FROSTY. 

As  though  marriage  were  in  the  very  air,  Red  River 
cantered  in  from  the  Dove's  Nest,  and  informed  Moon 
light  that  he  meant  to  marry  the  Firelight. 

"Which  I'm  simply  honin'  for  her,"  said  the  plain 
tive  Red  River. 

Moonlight,  quite  naturally,  asked  what  he  had  to 
do  with  the  matrimonial  designs  of  Red  River,  he, 
Moonlight,  having  troubles  of  his  own.  The  faithful 
Red  River  explained  that  he  was  as  yet  weak  from 
the  knife  thrust  in  his  side,  and  did  not  feel  equal  to 
beating  out  the  question  with  Ironjacket  to  a  success 
ful  issue.  It  was  in  his  thoughts  that  Moonlight 
would  be  proud  to  act  as  his  friend  with  Ironjacket 
— still  smoking  in  celebration  of  that  battle  at  the 
Dove's  Nest. 

Moonlight  kissed  Ethel,  and  said  he  must  ride 
southward,  briefly,  to  the  Palo  Duro.  She  replied 
that  she  was  glad,  having  much  to  do  in  a  millinery 
way,  and  the  time  short. 

Moonlight  found  Ironjacket  enveloped  in  medita 
tion  and  tobacco  smoke.  He  related  to  that  chief 
tain  the  loves  of  the  Firelight  and  the  sighing  Red 
River. 

"What  is  my  father's  'price'?"  asked  Moonlight, 
who  was  versed  in  Kiowa  customs. 

Ironjacket  smoked  and  thought  with  abysmal 
gravity  for  five  minutes,  while  Moonlight  rolled  a 
patient  cigarette.  Then  he  took  his  pipe  from  his 
mouth,  and  spoke  as  follows: 

"I  would  give  the  Firelight  to  my  son  without  a 
333 


THE    THROWBACK 


'price/  But  he  is  a  'bear/  and  she  is  a  'bear/  and 
'bears'  cannot  marry.  The  Red  River  one,  however, 
is  different." 

Ironjacket  then  explained  that  a  certain  disagree 
able  savage,  surnamed  Big  Turtle,  was  a  member  of 
that  particular  band  of  Kiowas  which  he,  Ironjacket, 
honored  with  his  citizenship.  The  despicable  Turtle 
owned  a  fleety  roan;  and  the  speed  of  that  roan  gave 
him  prominence  beyond  his  due.  Red  River  must 
get  Ironjacket  a  pony  that  should  beat  the  miserable 
Turtle's  roan;  that  was  the  "price"  for  the  Firelight. 

Away,  for  a  second  time,  flew  a  messenger  to  the 
invaluable  Frosty.  Having  a  wide  sporting  experi 
ence,  it  was  among  things  sure  that  Frosty  would  be 
able,  in  or  about  Austin,  to  pick  up  a  racing  pony, 
capable  of  turning  the  vainglorious  Turtle's  roan  into 
a  jest. 

Frosty  showed  himself  worthy  the  trust  reposed 
in  him.  There  came  presently  to  the  Panhandle,  at 
the  tail  of  one  of  Scotty's  mail  wagons,  an  ox-eyed, 
gentle  little  bay,  nostril  like  a  tiger-lily,  coat  of  satin. 
Frosty  sent  private  word  that  the  satin  bay  could 
"turn  down  an  antelope  in  a  quarter-mile  dash  for 
money,  marbles  or  chalk." 

However  that  might  have  been,  with  Red  River  in 
the  saddle,  it  went  by  the  roan  of  the  boastful  Turtle 
as  though  that  ignoble  mustang  were  tied  to  a  tree. 
Ironjacket  went  up  above  the  contemptible  Turtle, 
as  a  social  consequence,  in  Rabbit  Ear  first  circles. 
Also  Red  River  took  the  Firelight  to  wife,  the  feat 
being  accomplished  by  the  simple  rite  of  eating  off  the 
same  dish  with  that  maiden,  after  the  custom  of  the 
Firelight's  ancestors  for  all  time. 

334 


LOVE  GREW,  TREASURE  CAME 

It  was  evening  at  the  Bar-Z.  The  next  morning 
the  household  would  ride  down  the  Canadian  to  the 
Red  Bull's,  since  the  wedding  of  Don  Anton  and  the 
Dona  Inez  was  now  but  two  days  away.  Moonlight 
brought  out  the  yellow  Don  Lopez  casket,  and  placed 
it  on  the  table.  Jeff  was  called  in  from  the  camp 
house,  where  he  had  been  exchanging  mendacities 
with  the  Bar-Z  riders,  one  of  whom  was  reckoned  the 
Ananias  of  the  Panhandle. 

When  all  were  gathered  about  the  little  golden  box, 
Moonlight  spoke  up. 

"What  is  inside,"  said  he,  "is  to  be  Ethel's.  One 
day  she  will  be  a  wife,  I  trust" — there  was  a  glimmer 
of  humor  about  the  gray  eyes — "and  this  is  her  mar 
riage  gift  from  me.  The  three  several  interests  be 
sides  my  own  I  shall  meet  in  money." 

"And  what  interests  are  they?"  asked  the  Pro 
fessor  innocently. 

"Yours,  Jeff's  and  Red  River's,"  returned  Moon 
light.  "However,"  he  continued,  interrupting  the 
Professor,  who  was  evidently  about  to  enter  a  protest 
so  far  as  he  was  mentioned,  "let's  defer  argument 
until  we  see  what  we  have." 

"Shore!"  interjected  Jeff,  whose  curiosity  was  as 
the  curiosity  of  a  girl;  "let's  see  the  inside." 

Moonlight  insinuated  the  blade  of  his  bowie  be 
tween  the  lid  and  the  body  of  the  yellow  casket.  It 
hung  fire  a  moment,  and  then  suddenly  burst  open  all 
at  once.  There  were  several  water-soaked  withered 
scraps  of  parchment,  of  which  nothing  might  now  be 
made,  rotted  and  defaced  as  they  were  by  time  and 
the  elements.  The  balance  of  the  contents  Moon 
light  spilled  out  upon  the  table. 

335 


THE    THROWBACK 

The  tale  was  easily  made;  they  counted  a  score 
of  diamonds,  most  of  them  running  from  one  karat 
to  as  heavy  as  three,  and  all  of  admirable  purity. 
Among  them  as  distinguished  from  the  others  were 
three  immense  lozenge-shaped  stones  of  a  first  water. 
The  emeralds  numbered  no  more  than  five,  one  being 
a  great  tallow-drop  that  would  have  ransomed  a 
rajah.  As  the  Monk's  memorandum  set  forth,  the 
bulk  of  the  Don  Lopez  treasure  was  made  up  of  rubies. 
Of  these  there  seemed  to  be  an  endless  store,  more 
than  Ethel  might  have  held  in  both  small  hands.  They 
burned  and  sparkled  on  the  white  table-cloth  like 
fragments  of  blood-red  fire.  The  queen  of  the  collec 
tion  was  a  mighty  ruby,  purest  pigeon  blood  for  color, 
big  as  a  pigeon's  egg  for  size. 

"No  monarch,"  declared  the  expert,  to  whom  they 
were  afterward  submitted — "no  monarch  has  such 
a  ruby!  There  is  no  other  on  earth!  Value?  It  is 
beyond  a  value,  being — water  and  color  and  size — 
in  a  class  by  itself." 

It  was  a  study  in  expression  to  observe  the  five 
faces,  that  Bar-Z  evening,  as  they  bent  over  those 
Don  Lopez  rubies.  Aunt  Tilda  looked  startled,  and 
a  little  alarmed.  Ethel's  color  came  and  went,  while 
her  eyes  were  a  bright  match  for  the  brightest  of 
the  diamonds.  The  Professor  was  elated;  but  it  was 
purely  a  scientific  elation,  accentuated  with  a  little 
pardonable  vanity,  when  he  remembered  the  wind 
break  and  the  manner  of  that  treasure's  recovery. 
As  for  Jeff,  he  of  all  was  least  impressed;  for,  as  he 
himself  explained,  when  it  came  to  gems  and  kindred 
trinketry  his  was  the  deepest  ignorance. 

"To  show  me  them  things,"  he  said,  when  the  Pro- 
336 


LOVE  GREW,  TREASURE  CAME 

fessor  asked  his  opinion,  "is  like  peltin'  a  pig  with 
pearls,  as  the  Scriptures  remarks.  They  shore  ought 
to  look  a  heap  gala,  however,  on  the  little  girl,"  he 
went  on,  glancing  admiringly  at  Ethel.  "  The  Cap'n's 
right;  she's  the  one  that  heaven  meant  them  for, 
when  it  made  'em." 

Moonlight,  while  he  looked  at  the  gems,  saw  only 
Ethel  in  them. 

"Are  they  all  for  me?"  asked  Ethel,  catching  her 
breath.  "They  should  belong  to  an  empress!" 

"And  so  they  shall,  little  one,"  returned  Moonlight, 
and  his  look  spoke  even  more;  "so  they  shall.  They 
are  for  the  pretty  empress  of  my  heart!" 


337 


CHAPTER  XXV 
WEDDING  BELLS  AND  SOMERSET 

ALL  was  joy  and  magnificent  preparation  at  the 
Cross-8.  Sheep  by  the  flock  and  cattle  by  the  herd 
were  sacrificed,  while  casks  upon  casks  of  strong  wa 
ters  were  broached,  to  the  end  that  those  heavy  of 
heart  be  upborne.  There  were  cock  fighting,  and 
pony  racing,  and  monte,  and  eating  and  drinking 
and  dancing  without  end. 

The  day  before  the  one  set  for  the  wedding  of 
Don  Anton  with  the  Dona  Inez,  Merchant  Wright 
and  Mr.  Hanrahan  appeared  at  the  Cross-8.  They 
brought  with  them,  on  one  of  Scotty's  buckboards, 
a  slim,  nervous  personage,  who  seemed  ill  at  ease,  as 
one  not  sure  of  his  surroundings  or  the  purpose  of  his 
coming.  While  they  tried  to  act  otherwise,  it  was 
apparent  that  Mr.  Hanrahan  and  Merchant  Wright 
were  on  hawklike  guard  over  the  slim,  nervous  per 
sonage. 

"Me  and  Bob,"  whispered  Mr.  Hanrahan  to  Moon 
light,  "  has  been  worried  sick  for  fear  this  yere  gospel 
sharp  gets  away." 

Moonlight  thanked  Mr.  Hanrahan  and  Merchant 
Wright  for  their  sleepless  solicitude. 

The  slim,  nervous  personage  made  straight  for 
Aunt  Tilda.  She  smacked  of  civilization,  and  there 
from  he  drew  comfort  and  a  feeling  of  security. 

"It's  all  so  strange!"  he  said  to  Aunt  Tilda.  "I 
338 


WEDDING  BELLS  AND  SOMERSET 

was  sought  out  by  a  plausible  gentleman  in  Austin, 
who  said  that  a  church  and  congregation  awaited  me 
at  a  place  called  the  'Dobe  Walls.  I  came,  and 
found  only  a  store  and  a  rude  rum-shop.  These 
gentlemen,  to  whom  I  had  been  directed,  told  me  I 
might  preach  in  either  structure.  When  I  asked 
about  a  possible  congregation,  they  pointed  to  a  crea 
ture  called  'Locoed  Charlie,'  who  was  hopelessly  un 
settled  in  his  mind.  Then  they  prevailed  upon  me 
to  accompany  them  hither,  saying  my  services  would 
be  required  at  a  wedding." 

Aunt  Tilda  did  much  to  reassure  the  slim,  nervous 
personage.  That  reference  to  his  intended  participa 
tion  in  a  wedding  mystified  her;  she  mentioned  it 
a  little  later  to  Moonlight. 

"I  had  supposed  their  own  padre  would  marry 
them,"  she  said. 

Moonlight,  the  fraudulent,  whispered  something  to 
Aunt  Tilda  which  took  that  good  lady's  breath  away. 

"But  surely — "  she  began,  in  wonder  and  remon 
strance. 

Moonlight,  the  fraudulent,  smothered  her,  diplo 
matically,  with  kisses.  When  she  attempted  another 
start,  he  repeated  his  diplomacy.  For  one  so  lately 
reclaimed  from  barbarism,  he  had  attained  a  fine 
knowledge  of  the  convincing  character  of  kisses  and 
their  value  as  arguments,  when  a  woman  would  de 
bate.  Aunt  Tilda's  objections  lost  their  feet  before 
the  Moonlight  diplomacy,  and  the  good  lady  gave 
way.  There  would  be  a  double  wedding  at  the 
Cross-8. 

Her  objections  being  overthrown,  Aunt  Tilda  was 
so  generous  as  to  relieve  the  vigils  of  Mr.  Hanrahan 

339 


THE    THROWBACK 

and  Merchant  Wright.  She  herself  took  charge  of 
the  slim,  nervous  personage,  who  gave  his  name  as 
"Rev.  Poinsette  Jones." 

Mr.  Hanrahan  and  Merchant  Wright  were  deeply 
grateful  to  Aunt  Tilda.  They  would  now  refresh 
themselves,  and  unbuckle  politely  under  the  mellow 
ing  hospitality  of  the  Red  Bull,  who  had  been  made 
radiant  by  their  coming.  They  were  of  the  Pan 
handle  aristocracy,  and  in  their  advent  the  Red  Bull 
caught  a  glimpse  of  his  restoration  to  that  place  among 
Americans  which  he  had  sacrificed  for  the  hand  and 
the  flocks  and  the  herds  of  his  late  Mexican  spouse. 
Mr.  Hanrahan  arid  Merchant  Wright  accepted  the 
friendly  attentions  of  the  Red  Bull  with  a  nice  com 
mingling  of  graciousness  and  distance,  which  did  not 
wholly  shut  the  door  on  the  Red  Bull's  hopes. 

The  old  Spanish  padre  and  the  Rev.  Poinsette  Jones 
conferred.  Later  they  announced  that  they  would 
conjointly,  and  side  by  side,  officiate  at  both  weddings. 

"That,  Ned,"  observed  Merchant  Wright,  "is  what 
I  call  pooling  their  issues." 

"Rather,"  returned  Mr.  Hanrahan,  referring  in  his 
thoughts  to  the  high  contracting  parties,  "they  aims 
riot  only  to  hobble,  but  side-line  'em.  Or  it's  like 
throwin'  a  pony  with  two  ropes  at  once." 

The  double  arrangement  delighted  the  Dona  Inez, 
who  rejoiced  in  novelties.  She  would  have  liked  a 
cathedral,  a  choir,  an  organ  and  four  pages  to  hold 
up  her  train;  but  these  embellishments  were  not 
practicable  on  the  Canadian. 

After  the  ceremony  there  was  the  official  baile, 
wanting  which  no  Mexican  wedding  would  really  be 
a  wedding.  The  Dona  Inez  and  Moonlight  danced 

340 


WEDDING  BELLS  AND  SOMERSET 

together.  Ethel  looked  on  pleased  and  not  jealous. 
Don  Anton,  as  on  a  former  evening,  smoked  a  cigar 
ette  and  posed  as  the  picture  of  that  languid,  super 
cilious  inanity  proper  in  a  young  rico. 

At  the  end  of  the  dance  the  Dona  Inez  brought 
Moonlight  to  Ethel. 

"He  does  not  dance  so  well  as  he  did,"  she  said. 
Then,  to  Moonlight, "  You  have  become  civilized,  that 
is  the  trouble.  You  are  no  longer  savage  enough." 
Later,  she  whispered  to  Ethel,  "The  Mother  of  all 
happiness  must  have  smiled  when  you  were  born; 
that  is  why  you  have  a  god  to  love.  Yes,"  looking 
across  at  Moonlight,  who  had  joined  Mr.  Hanrahan 
and  Merchant  Wright,  "he  is  one  whom  a  woman 
might  follow  barefoot  through  life!"  Her  eye  fell 
upon  the  languid  Don  Anton,  propped  against  the 
wall.  "What  a  foolishness  is  marriage!  And  for 
that  matter,  what  a  foolishness  is  life!" 

In  the  face  of  this  cynicism  the  Dona  Inez  looked 
complacent,  even  happy,  as  Ethel  was  bound  to  ob 
serve. 

"This  is  the  remarkable  thing,"  said  Aunt  Tilda 
to  the  Professor.  "Ethel  was  in  love  with  Nephew 
Alan  when  I  spoke  to  her  of  Robert.  But  —  and  this 
is  what  baffles  me — when  and  where  did  she  learn  to 
love  him?" 

"They  love  each  other  now,  my  dear  Madam,"  re 
turned  the  Professor,  "and  we  may  safely  rejoice  over 
that." 

"It  is,"  retorted  Aunt  Tilda  loftily,  "natural  for  a 
man  to  be  satisfied  with  nothing  more  than  a  result. 
But  a  woman  goes  deeper;  aside  from  a  mere  result, 
she  demands  to  know  the  cause." 

341 


THE    THROWBACK 

Red  River  was  at  the  baile,  but  he  did  not  dance. 
He  said  that  his  wound  was  not  yet  healed.  The  Fire 
light  was  also  present,  and  her  black  eyes  were  never 
off  Red  River.  Jeff,  the  disgruntled,  privily  scoffed 
at  Red  River's  excuse;  he  said  it  was  no  wound,  but 
fear  of  the  Firelight  that  had  so  tamed  him. 

"An7  to  think,  Professor,"  remarked  Jeff,  shaking 
sadly  the  while  his  head,  "that  boy  was  once  as  free 
as  antelopes!" 

The  Professor  and  Jeff  were  together  a  deal  through 
out  the  evening.  And  wherefore  no?  They  were 
fellow  scientists,  brother  engineers,  comrades,  what 
you  will!  After  the  fourth  visit  to  the  refreshment 
room,  they  went  about  arm  in  arm.  Jeff  declared 
that  the  Professor  was  without  doubt  the  most  highly 
educated  gentleman  it  had  ever  been  his  fortune  to 
meet,  while  the  Professor  averred  that  in  Jeff  he  found 
a  mine  of  information  not  taught  by  schools  nor  dis 
coverable  in  books. 

The  old  ginterero,  being  a  Mexican  with  a  memory, 
sang  a  song  in  exaltation  of  the  Professor,  which  for 
hyperbole  was  never  matched  or  mated  throughout 
the  broad  Southwest.  For  this  attention,  the  Pro 
fessor — who  believed  in  rewarding  minstrelsy — filled 
the  old  guiterero's  claw  with  saffron  gold;  a  generosity 
which  so  worked  upon  that  bard  as  to  cause  him  to 
tear  the  very  soul  from  his  shivering  instrument  in 
requital. 

At  one  crisis,  carried  away  on  the  currents  of  the 
occasion,  the  Professor  boldly  proposed  for  Aunt 
Tilda's  hand.  Here  were  the  two  clergymen,  he 
said;  they  ought  to  have  employment.  A  third  wed 
ding  would  be  unexpected;  it  would  for  that  rea- 

342 


WEDDING  BELLS  AND  SOMERSET 

son,  he  urged,  be  the  more  rapturously  received, 
since  humanity,  whether  American  or  Mexican,  ever 
reveled  in  surprise.  The  Professor  waxed  eloquent, 
but  his  eloquence  met  only  with  rebuke. 

"You  should  think  on  our  years,  Professor,"  ex 
claimed  Aunt  Tilda,  settling  her  plumage. 

"I  do  think  on  our  years,"  protested  the  desperate 
Professor,  "and  it  is  for  the  very  reason  of  our  years 
that  I  favor  haste." 

Aunt  Tilda,  however,  was  obdurate;  Robert  and 
the  proprieties  must  be  remembered.  She  conceded 
nothing  to  the  Professor's  suit,  beyond  a  promise  to 
take  up  the  subject  of  his  " heart  and  happiness" — 
for  those  were  the  words  of  the  Professor — when  they 
again  found  themselves  back  in  old  Somerset. 

The  beneficent  Red  Bull  drew  the  Rev.  Poinsette 
Jones  aside,  and  in  the  name  of  Moonlight  and  him 
self  bestowed  upon  that  divine  such  a  donative,  in 
lawful  money  of  the  realm,  as  caused  both  his  pockets 
and  his  eyes  to  bulge.  The  Rev.  Poinsette  Jones  was 
overcome,  and  said  that  the  Panhandle,  while  wild, 
was  not  niggardly. 

"I  have  loved  you  much,"  whispered  the  Dona 
Inez  to  Ethel,  when  they  parted;  "I  shall  always  love 
you!  You  will  now  go  the  long  miles  back  to  your 
own  country.  But  you  will  never  forget.  You  will 
think,  now  and  then,  of  your  friends  on  the  Concha 
and  on  the  Canadian." 

Five  years  roll  rearward.  The  great  white  Gordon 
mansion,  buried  in  its  Somerset  trees,  is  again  a 
theater  of  life  and  happiness.  Moonlight,  no  longer 
Moonlight  but  Alan  Gordon,  is  acclaimed  by  all  the 

343 


THE    THROWBACK 

Eastern  Shore  as  a  very  flower  among  Gordons. 
Ethel,  beautiful  as  a  girl,  is  even  more  beautiful  as 
a  matron.  There  is  little  Alan,  aged  four,  who,  with 
his  father's  gray  eyes  and  high  nobility  of  face,  has 
the  dark  hair  of  his  mother.  There  is  little  Ethel, 
aged  two,  who  with  her  love  and  gentleness,  and  soft 
dark  hair  and  eyes,  is  wholly  her  mother's  girl.  The 
hospitality  and  the  quiet,  fine  culture  of  the  Alan  Gor 
dons  are  watchwords  along  the  Chesapeake.  Ethel, 
with  those  Don  Lopez  rubies — known  from  Baltimore 
to  Savannah,  and  north  to  New  York,  as  the  Gordon 
rubies — blazing  at  brow  and  throat,  looks  on  those 
state  occasions  when  she  wears  them  more  imperial 
than  could  any  empress. 

Down  the  hill  from  the  great  Gordon  mansion  a 
little  mile,  lives  Aunt  Tilda  in  that  cottage  which  was 
once  the  home  of  Ethel,  Robert  and  herself.  She  has 
changed  from  Aunt  Tilda  Hempstead  to  Aunt  Tilda 
Doremus,  and  her  husband,  the  good  Professor,  is 
with  her. 

Jeff,  the  impartial,  maintains  an  unbroken  residence 
with  both  households.  His  only  serious  charge  is  the 
care  of  President.  With  his  share  of  the  Don  Lopez 
rubies,  turned  into  cash  by  Moonlight,  he  has  bought 
an  annuity  which — for  Jeff  is  along  in  years — requires 
five  figures  in  its  annual  telling. 

"Life  insurance/'  says  Jeff,  "I'm  ag'in,  as  behV  a 
game  wherein  a  gent  has  to  die  to  win.  But  annooi- 
ties  is  plumb  different.  In  annooities,  you-all  lives 
to  win;  which  is  more  my  style." 

Jeff  collects  his  five-figure  annuity  quarterly,  and 
spends  most  of  it  on  the  neighbors.  He  has  a  high 
place  in  Somerset  society,  of  which  he  is  the  Mun- 

344 


WEDDING  BELLS  AND  SOMERSET 

chausen,  the  Mandeville  and  the  Marco  Polo.  The 
children  call  him  " Uncle  Jeff,"  and  the  grown-ups 
call  him  " Colonel." 

Red  River,  with  Firelight,  is  prosperously  in  cattle 
at  the  Bar-Z.  Moonlight  refused  every  interest  he 
might  have  in  that  property,  as  a  relative  by  blood 
of  Robert,  and  insisted  that  Aunt  Tilda  take  all. 
Then  he  paid  her  out  with  a  round  twenty  thousand 
dollars,  and  gave  the  Bar-Z  to  Red  River.  That 
was  to  be  the  latter's  share  in  those  Don  Lopez 
rubies. 

Moonlight  procured  a  value  to  be  put  on  those 
rubies,  and  the  guarded  finding  of  the  expert  placed 
them  at  a  rotund  million.  Acting  on  this  estimate, 
and  remembering  the  request  of  the  dead  Jose,  Moon 
light  dispatched  a  draft  on  London,  for  an  even  one 
hundred  thousand  dollars,  to  the  head  of  the  Society 
of  Jesus,  then  resident  in  Barcelona.  The  holy  man 
saw  in  the  draft  a  manifestation  of  that  benign  Provi 
dence  which  had  ever  watched  over  his  order. 

Jeff,  the  excursive,  goes  each  autumn  to  the  Pan 
handle,  on  what  he  calls  a  tour  of  inspection.  When 
he  returns  he  relates  the  news.  His  last  report  ran 
to  this  effect : 

Red  River  and  the  Firelight  have  two  children- 
boys.  These  are  named  respectively  "Alan  Gordon" 
and  "Jefferson  Home." 

" Nacherally, "  observed  Jeff,  "I  ain't  wholly  satis 
fied  with  the  color  of  them  infants,  havin'  an  undoo 
prejewdice  for  white,  myse'f;  but  for  all  that,  I'm 
yere  to  say  that  them  children  has  their  p'ints.  Also, 
Red  River  allows  he'll  never  rest  content  till  he's  had 
three  more,  an'  named  'em  for  the  balance  of  us. " 

345 


THE    THROWBACK 

The  Red  Bull,  according  to  Jeff,  is  slowly  but  surely 
regaining  caste  among  Americans.  He  makes  a 
specialty,  too,  of  peace  and  friendship  with  Red  River 
and  the  Bar-Z  people — a  piping  condition  despised 
by  Ironjacket  who,  with  Southwind,  has  headquarters 
at  his  new  son's.  Ironjacket  maintains  that  a  tidy, 
well-nursed  feud  with  the  Red  Bull  could  not  fail  of 
advantage. 

"In  peace,"  argues  Ironjacket,  "the  waters  run 
dry,  and  the  grass  dies.  There  is  no  good  in  peace. 
He  who  would  be  rich  and  happy  must  have  plenty 
of  war." 

Mr.  Hanrahan  and  Merchant  Wright  flourish  at 
the  'Dobe  Walls,  and  Scotty  carries  the  mails.  As 
for  Frosty,  that  intelligent  speculator  has  given  up 
faro  bank  for  a  bank  of  the  National  variety. 

"Which  faro  bank,"  says  Frosty,  "has  nothin'  in 
its  favor  but  the  'splits/  Whereas  a  National  bank, 
as  ag'inst  them  puerile  ' splits/  possesses  advantages 
which  I  should  shore  blush  to  unfold." 

Over  on  the  Concha  dwell  the  Dona  Inez  and  Don 
Anton.  The  latter  is  as  narrowly  inane  as  ever,  while 
the  Dona  Inez  makes  existence  one  long  sieste,  broken 
only  by  chocolate  and  cigarettes.  She  sends  her 'love 
and  a  kiss  to  Ethel,  and  says  she  has  not  seen  a  man 
along  the  Canadian,  or  on  the  Concha,  since  the  Sefior 
Moonlight  left. 

Moonlight,  of  all  who  have  marched  in  these  pages, 
is  the  happiest;  and  he  lays  his  happiness  at  the 
gentle  door  of  Ethel,  whom  he  believes  in  and  reveres 
as  the  high-priestess  of  civilization. 

"My  father  was  right,"  declares  Moonlight;  "I 
was  a  Throwback.  If  he  erred,  it  was  in  not  reckon- 

346 


WEDDING  BELLS  AND  SOMERSET 

ing  on  the  power  of  reclamation  that  lives  in  a  woman's 
love." 

He  draws  Ethel  to  him  as  he  says  this,  and  the  kiss 
which  puts  a  period  to  his  wisdom  is  as  vivid  as  was 
that  other  kiss  on  a  battle-splintered  morning  at  the 
Dove's  Nest. 


THE    END 


347 


WILL    BE    READY   IN   APRIL 

THE   PASS 

BY 

STEWART  EDWARD  WHITE 


TELLS  in  the  author's  inimitable  style  the  story  of 
a  journey  across  the  Sierra  Nevadas.  There  is 
no  better  travelling  companion  in  the  world  than 
Mr.  White.  He  gets  on  such  intimate  terms  with  his 
readers  that  with  him  one  may  climb  mighty  mountain 
peaks,  explore  the  vastness  of  the  woods,  breathe  the  free 
air  of  the  great  plains,  and  hear  the  rushing  of  many  waters, 
without  moving  from  one's  fireside,  such  being  the 
fascination  of  his  work.  Bits  of  mountain  lore,  dainty 
descriptions  of  scenery,  and  humorous  episodes  run  in 
delightful  sequence  through  the  whole  sparkling  narrative 
of  "The  Pass,"  and  the  charm  and  grandeur  of  the 
great  mountain  solitudes  as  interpreted  by  Mr.  White 
will  leave  an  impression  upon  one's  mind  that  will  not 
soon  fade  away. 

With   many  illustrations  and  page  decorations  from 
photographs.     Large  1 2mo.     Price  $1 ,50 

PUBLISHED  BY 

THE  OUTING  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK 


of  Unusual 


The  Praying  Skipper 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 

By  RALPH  D.   PAINE 

TTIIS  collection  of  recent  stories  by  one 
of  the  most  promising  writers  of  the 
day  comprises  "The  Praying  Skipper," 
1  'A  Victory  Unforeseen,"  '  '  The  Last  Pilot 
Schooner  ,"  4  '  Surf  man  Brainard's  Day  Off,  " 
"The  Jade  Teapot,"  "Captain  Arendt's 
Choice,"  and  "Corporal  Sweeney,  De 
serter."  They  are  all  good,  every  one  of 
them  vigorous  and  strong,  showing  the 
author's  wide  range  of  human  feeling 
and  his  complete  mastery  of  the  art  of 
story  telling. 

Illustrations  by   Blumenchein,   Lyendecker,  Aykoard 
and  Sidney  jldamson.     Price  $1  .50. 

PUBLISHED  BY 

THE  OUTING  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK 


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